


Underneath the Bough

by midnightprelude, oftachancer



Series: Underneath the Bough [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Implied/Referenced Underage Prostitution, M/M, Magic and Science, Multi, POV Almila (OC), POV Anders (Dragon Age), POV Dorian Pavus, Poverty, Reference to still birth, Thedas/England Mashup, Victorian Attitudes, lavender marriage, victorian au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-20
Updated: 2021-03-05
Packaged: 2021-03-12 09:34:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 31,754
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28883238
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/midnightprelude/pseuds/midnightprelude, https://archiveofourown.org/users/oftachancer/pseuds/oftachancer
Summary: Family. Legacy. Respect.Dorian bartered away his freedom and independence to purchase them when he’d resigned himself to walk the path his father had designed for him. His shackles chafed, even as he toed the line diligently, marrying a woman he loved but couldn’t be in love with, having a son he was mortified of disappointing-It was almost enough to build a life from, until disease rendered both his son and his marriage feeble.A visit from a mysterious doctor threatens to turn his household, his world, and his heart upside-down.England. 1867.
Relationships: Anders/Almila (OC), Anders/Dorian Pavus, Dorian Pavus/Almila (OC)
Series: Underneath the Bough [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2164278
Comments: 51
Kudos: 20





	1. What is sorrow?

**Author's Note:**

> This is a Halward wins AU, where Dorian is pressured into marrying, having a family, and continuing the Pavus legacy and the consequences of that choice. 
> 
> We have made every endeavor to handle the scenario with care and compassion, as the themes of acceptance and discovery and being true to one's self are very dear to both of our hearts. That being said, the work innately is going to deal with societal and historical homophobia, so there will be a bevy of uncomfortable topics. If you'd prefer to avoid such things, then this fic is probably not going to be for you.

##  Dorian

The woodwinds were far more sprightly than the dancers, but it would have been churlish to say so. The young women were in the spring of their youth and he knew for a fact that at least one of them was terrified to be on the dais performing plies and turns in front of the assembled gentry. Almila’s sister had never taken to being the center of attention the way she had. They were both serious-minded, clever women, but where Hattie would have preferred to retire to a study to read or practice her embroidery, Almila was always the first to dive into experimentation and challenge. 

He ducked his head slightly, recalling her foray into dance. Terrible. Abysmally terrible. He tightened his back teeth to keep from laughing at the memory. She’d been all of sixteen, beaming like a lit lantern as she stumbled through the choreography among the other girls. A terrible ballet dancer, much worse than her sister, but no one had minded. She was a force, Almila was. She could shine in any situation. 

He glanced to where she sat beside him, her eyes narrowed on the stage in an attempt to control her expression. He widened his eyes slightly when she glanced his way and saw her lips twitch in humor. 

“Don’t you dare,” she whispered.

“She’s better than you were.”

Almila laughed, bringing her fan up to cover her lips as she forced a series of fake coughs. 

Later, when the performance concluded and the ladies took themselves off for private conversation, he would be ribbed about how affectionate he was with his wife in public. They would tease him over cigars and sherry, making noises about their own wives and mistresses, sharing far more information than he had need of, and more lurid details as the evening wore on and the sobriety in the room took a sharp left turn. Then Dorian would pass along all their secrets for Almila to make use of at her whim. 

There were benefits to befriending one’s wife. This was one of them. And having someone to laugh with during the endless presentations that accompanied the fetes and salons he was so fond of. 

It was good to hear her laugh. A reward for the escape into the winter night and the drudgery of watching three separate performances for girls who would be coming out in the next year. They’d pleased both their families by attending, but it was good to get out of the house as well.

He and Almila had both believed that they’d survived the worst of it when the scarlet fever had finally departed their household and the red rashes that had covered their son Julius had faded away. But it had been weeks since then and the boy barely had the energy even to sit with them for any length of time. He was so small and listless, staring at the charcoals he’d once taken such joy drawing with. He cried when they walked him from room to room. Sometimes the fever even seemed to return, though no one could explain why. 

They were exhausted. Everyone in their significantly diminished household was exhausted. It was just as well they would return to the country soon. Perhaps the open air and the gardens would serve Julius’ recovery. Sea air had always done wonders for Dorian when he’d grown dark and withdrawn in his youth. 

Gentle, slender fingers ghosted his cheek, and pools of midnight darkness stared up at him with a sweet, slight smile. “Do you think it would be terribly untoward to duck home early?” She’d been a sight when he’d finally convinced her to leave Julius in the care of the nanny. Rumpled nightgown she’d not changed for a week, curled around the child, hidden among the pile of blankets that covered his little legs; Julius had wept when she left and Almila had nearly collapsed next to him again. 

She hadn’t asked Dorian for much, in their nearly seven years of marriage, but she’d wanted a child with the fierce determination she approached life with. Schedules and charts and consultations with doctors until she’d quickened and grown wide. She was radiant, beaming, and bright as the teenager who had danced across the stage, more of an awkward goose than a swan, her happiness palpable, brightening all it touched.

The little girl his wife had spent the better part of a year carrying only breathed their air for a few moments before being swept away to the Maker’s side again. Dorian hadn’t known how much he could ache from the loss of a perfect stranger, but he had. He still did, times, standing in the dark and feeling his heart catch at the memory of that small, still face. Almila had grieved as well, and deeply, but if anything, it had only deepened her ferocity. 

Then they’d had Julius and he had been everything Almila was: fierce and bright and squalling. Shaking his fists at the world from his first moments. His first three years, he’d been a nuisance. As soon as he’d learned to crawl, he’d been tugging tablecloths, sending the contents of tables scattering across the floors for his investigations. He’d tried to eat a set of silver marbles Dorian used as weights for a few experiments. He’d tugged at the petals of posies and shredded hems and all of it while he’d been wild and cackling. Dorian had listened to him and Almila’s laughter echoing through their townhouse in London and across the grounds at Drakonis-on-Sea. All of the boy’s adventures had delighted her, and Dorian had been warmed by the sight of her patiently encouraging and eagerly playing along with him. 

He wondered if Julius would remember all the hours she’d spent with him as the central focus of her world. Then he thought of the pale, shaking creature they’d left at home that evening, weeping when Almila had left the room, and he wondered how long Julius would live to remember.

He wondered how much of it was his fault. 

Dorian inclined his head. “You’re certain?” he murmured as the dancers departed the stage and the musicians shifted in their seats, waiting to be dismissed as the assembled gentry began to rise and mull about for more wine and conversation. “You’ll miss your chance to catch up on city gossip.”

“Gossip,” she sighed, dark circles under her eyes barely obscured by powder that made her look too pale, “all variations on the same themes. I’ll congratulate Hattie and then-“

The door to the parlor opened, letting in a sharp peal of winter air. An apologetic looking fellow who hadn’t the decency to remove his hat or gloves slipped in and dipped his head to Almila’s father. He looked as uncomfortable as a man could be, dressed in black from head to toe, an ill-fitting suit with patches at the elbows. The man spoke with a voice as soothing as honeyed tea. “My apologies, Lord Everens,” he murmured, “I was rather held up by an influx of patients just as I was intending to slip away, and then there was the matter of-“

“It’s no bother,” Gideon Everens smiled slightly as he swept the stranger towards them. “I’m glad you were able to make an appearance. I planned to introduce you to my eldest and her husband.” Almila had inherited her spirit from her father and looks from her mother. The man stood tall and straight-backed, smiling widely. “Lord and Lady Pavus, may I present Dr. Andersson.”

“Please,” the man removed his hat, shifting it in his hands. Long blond hair, fine as feathers, tied loosely by a ribbon at the back of his neck. “It’s just Anders.”

“Father-“ Almila peered between the doctor and her father, brows winging in confusion. They’d had months of doctors already, none of them able to do much more than give their boy tinctures of opium. “I’m pleased to meet your acquaintance.”

“Of course you are!” Everens nodded succinctly. “He served with Linius on the front line. ‘Never seen a better medic’, he said, ‘pulled a bullet right out of a man’s head and the fellow lived to tell the tale’.” Dorian’s father-in-law patted the doctor on the shoulder. “Wasted in the Imperial hospital, really-“

“Not anymore, I’m afraid,” Anders said quietly, cheeks turning crimson. “I’m very recently unemployed. As of this evening, in fact.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Gideon beamed, clearly having arranged the situation. As subtle as his daughter, it seemed. The doctor didn’t seem to notice, still looking at the brim of his shabby hat. “Surely a man of your talents is brimming with opportunity. Why, I imagine you could make enough coin to live comfortably doing house calls.”

“Not really my purview, my lord-“

“ _ Nonsense _ !” Gideon exclaimed. “I’ll show you. A hundred aurens to call upon my grandson tonight. The little lad took ill with a fever a few months hence and-“

“Father, please,” Almila protested, wrinkling her nose. The poor woman was worn thin, her smiles becoming a rare treasure. “Julius doesn’t need any visitors.”

“Nor does he require his health to be a topic of conversation at a salon,” Dorian murmured. “He’s recovering. You know very well that these things take their own time. Might we adjourn to your study to discuss the matter?” He smiled, though the expression felt taut, leaning to kiss Almila’s cheek. “I believe you wished to congratulate your sister. Come find me when you’ve finished, and we’ll go.”

He waited, watching her go, and held his tongue as they progressed down the hall away from eager ears into the small, cramped study Gideon used. Mainly for accounts and the occasional cigar, so far as Dorian had been able to divine. He pinched the bridge of his nose as the door closed behind them. “I will not have you publicizing his illness for the common rabble,” he spoke perhaps too sharply, ignoring the dark shadow of the doctor in the corner. “We do not need any more opium or clouds of myrrh or bloody leeches in our house, Gideon. What my son requires- What your  _ daughter _ requires- is a break from the incessant nuisance of ‘medical professionals’.” He peeled his gloves off, slapping them against his palm. “Do you understand?”

“What she  _ needs _ ,” Gideon grumbled, his stare insistent and piercing, “is to not lose another child. Dorian, I’m only trying to help you; you know this. I don’t want to see the light flicker out of her eyes again.

Another and another and another. Sometimes Dorian wondered if he weren’t the recipient of some ancient curse of one of his famed ancestors. Cold rooms. Cold eyes. Cold hearts. How could any child survive that much chill? He barely had, himself. He flexed his hands on his gloves. “She does not want to see him pestered any further. If you cared a whit for her, you would know that.” 

“How dare you,” Gideon exhaled, resting his hand on the corner of his desk. He looked older, these past few months, more and more gray peppering his dark hair. “How dare you stand in my study and accuse me of negligence. My daughters are my life; I’ve treated you and Jonathan like my own kin.”

“Your boy has been ill for a time, my lord?” the doctor murmured, stepping from the shadows. “A sojourn away from the city would be more help than leeches and myrrh. If he has what half the city did, I imagine clouds of smoke made matters worse, not better.”

“Which is exactly what we planned.” Dorian lifted his chin, narrowing his eyes on his father in law. What he said was true. He’d welcomed Dorian warmly. Of course he had. Dorian was an Earl, and would inherit the title and holdings of the Marquess of Landsbridge and Qarinus eventually. His marriage to Almila had elevated the entire family into the echelons of the highest society, guaranteed her sisters more eligible marriage candidates, and opened a whole new clientele to her father’s businesses. “The estate is being prepared as we speak and we aim to take to it just as soon as the house can be packed. There. Your good doctor has been of service after all.”

“Dorian, please,” Gideon sighed, flexing his hands at his sides. “I love the lad, too. Just one more attempt and I’ll leave you be, come what may, you’ve my word.”

Dorian took a deep breath, exhaled. “Tomorrow.” He gritted his teeth. “Agreed?”

“Thank you, my boy,” his father-in-law’s shoulders dropped, visibly relaxing. “Go on, then, I’ll settle all of the details here. Give the little one my love.”

‘My boy.’ It always itched him to hear Gideon call him that. Too familiar. His own father, at his most proud, had never called Dorian anything but his own name. “Yes. Well.” He bowed his head stiffly. “A very pleasant soirée. Thank you.” He glanced towards the doctor. “Good evening.” He left without another word, trying to shake the sense of frustration free as he aimed for the door. He collected his hat and cloak, gathering Almila’s fur as she slipped into the foyer. “All well?”

“With the girls? Quite. Hattie asked me if you’ve any cousins of marriageable age,” Almila smirked, peering up at him as she pulled the thick sable around her shoulders. “Poor girl has always had a shine to you, my dearest. So quiet, the little dove; she’ll need help if she’s to avoid becoming a spinster.”

“We can’t have that. Not with her pirouette.” Dorian tucked her arm through his as the door was opened for them, guiding her down the steps to the waiting carriage. “She’s the better part of a year before your father will let her marry anyone, and years yet before she’s in danger of becoming a spinster. She’s a lovely, intelligent creature. It’s only a matter of time.” He stepped into the carriage behind her and settled in as the horses began the task of pulling them through the rain-drenched streets. “Worst comes to worst, we could always set her up with my cousin Harold. The one with the chins.”

“He’s sweet,” she nudged him playfully. “Not so pretty as you, no, but an entirely decent sort of fellow. One could do quite a bit worse.” Almila closed her eyes and leaned against his shoulder. “Have you bought us some peace from my father’s interventions?”

“Some.” He frowned at the top of her head. Decent. Yes. Harold was decent. Kind. Quiet. He might actually be quite a nice match for Hattie. Perhaps a better match than Dorian had been for Almila. He rested his chin atop her head and peered out the window. “He gave me his word this would be the last one, and not until tomorrow. So rest easy. If the quack even reaches for a jar of leeches, I’ll simply throw him out a window.”

“Good,” she sighed against him. “I was afraid coming here would be a mistake. I shouldn’t have left him there, all alone. I should’ve known Father would try and-“ Almila shook her head. “What do I know? Perhaps he’ll be able to help. Maker knows I haven’t.”

“No. And neither have I. And neither have the twenty doctors up to now. The sea air will help, as will leaving the city.” That, at least, this doctor seemed to understand well enough. “A change of scenery. By the end of the week, we’ll be on our way north exactly as we planned.” Dorian watched the street lamps flicker in the wind. “It isn’t a mistake to get out of the house, Alma. You need rest. You can’t burn your candle at both ends.”

“I can if it would make a difference,” she replied, her voice sharp, eyes still closed. “I miss his laughter. I would give anything to hear it again instead of the wailing that’s replaced it.”

He missed it, too. Julius’ laughter. Hers. Hours of the day when he could concentrate on his work without the rattling of coughs that sounded like shackles. “Tomorrow.” Dorian stared into the night. “We’ll see if this one is any better than the rest tomorrow. Try not to get your hopes up.”

“They’re not,” she said softly against his cloak. “I know better than that.”

Yes, he imagined she did. He himself had dashed them time and time again. Quiet little failures in the dark. Days he’d spent walking the moors with no notice to her- or disappearing into his study without emerging for so much as a word. They’d found their way to their balance, somewhat unsteadily, but he would always remember the look in her eyes when she’d demanded they lie together again. A fitting phrase. 

The townhouse was quiet when they arrived home, the servants creeping so as not to wake the lordling sleeping over their heads. The lamps were doused on their way up the stairs and Dorian watched as Almila headed to Julius’ room, waving off her maid. “Alma. If he’s asleep, let him sleep,” he whispered. 

“I want to hold my baby,” she murmured, squeezing his arm gently. “I’ll only be gone a minute. You won’t even notice.”

Words that had been said in anger more than once that had become a quiet, caring echo. He patted her cheek twice. “I’ll try not to. Don’t stay up all night.”

“I love you,” she said softly, catching his hand before slipping through their son’s door. “Thank you for trying.”

“I-“ He frowned as the door closed. Just as well. He stripped the cravat from his neck as he crossed to their room. Even when the fashion was to keep separate suites, they shared the room. The bed. He changed into his nightclothes and sat on the edge of the mattress, sipping his nightcap as he listened for the sounds of stirring down the hall. Upstairs and downstairs, the house shuttered and softened. Darkened. But he didn’t hear wailing or sobbing. Only the quiet of the night. 


	2. A fall of tears makes green again

##  Anders

He squinted into the full-length mirror, the thick crack down the center distorting his reflection. Presentable. He’d made himself presentable for less before, but touching toes with actual  _ nobility- _ They weren’t fooled by a light touch of rouge and subtle seams being stitched and re-seamed where the fabric had worn thin. He ran a whalebone comb through his shoulder-length hair - one of his only remaining trinkets his mother had touched - and slipped a new ribbon from between his teeth to pull it up into a half-ponytail. Not that it would stay that way, but he had to at least make an attempt.

The loss of his position at Bethlem was a sting, but hardly unexpected. He’d been reprimanded thrice already for speaking up about the ill conditions in the slums of the city; had even set aflame a well he suspected was the source of the cholera outbreak six months ago. Not that his patients’ recovery made much of a difference to the authorities. 

He’d just managed to sock away a few silvers to begin saving for a clinic of his own before the hospital director called him into his office and took his white coat from him. A sting, indeed.

Anders picked up his tools and packed them away, hanging his head as he pushed open the ancient creaking door for the last time, only to be greeted by an old friend on the street.

A new job, a new patient, Linius had said, a cushy position seeing to one sick child. A hundred  _ aurens _ ? For one kid? Had he ever even accrued that much money in the entire course of his life? Who would just throw it away on a single visit? 

Hadn’t said it was for an Earl’s son. Practically royalty; Anders should’ve realized by the sheer sum. It wasn’t the sort of work he typically did; usually, if his patients picked him a few wildflowers he was satisfied in terms of payment. Times were hard in the city and he wasn’t about to make them worse. But with that sort of money, he could open and staff a clinic, keep it stable for a time even if his clients couldn’t pay. 

He shook his head, pulling out his broken pocket watch. Wasn’t the sort of money he could turn down in any matter. Anders gave up trying to freshen his appearance and grabbed his case, heading down the stairs of his rental towards the waiting carriage.

Gilded and glittering, completely out of step with its surroundings. White coursers, immaculately groomed. Anders blinked slowly at the driver who hopped down from his perch to look him over. 

“Andersson?” 

Anders nodded, the horses pawing at the cobbles. The driver inclined his head and opened the door for him, waving him in.

Thoroughly bizarre.

He stared out the window in awe as dull browns and drab grays of his normal life were slowly replaced by a steady stream of color, evergreens lining the sidewalks, garlands of holly and poinsettia providing wonderful, unexpected pops of color. Lords and ladies, strolling about, arm in arm, dressed in the height of fashion, colored with dyes he hadn’t even known existed. Easy to forget that it was all part of the same city.

The drive dragged on endlessly, but he was in no urge to stop it, to face the discerning eyes of the man who might well stand between him and a clinic of his own. Lord Pavus, Earl of Drakonis-on-Sea. He had only the loosest connection to his family; knowing Linius through his time in the army, who had apparently risen up the ranks of Lord Everens’ business until he’d made himself indispensable, a manager of one of the shipping branches or other such thing. Linius had paid Anders a visit when his little girl had come down with a cough a few months ago and the man had promised to find him something less back-breaking than work at the overcrowded, underfunded hospital. Anders hadn’t expected he’d actually follow through. 

But here he was, staring down the wrought iron gates that separated the door to the Pavus brownstone from the riff-raff of the street. He flexed his hands at his sides and stepped from the carriage as the gate swung wide, the carriage driver guiding him to the door and stopping short as it opened. 

“Welcome, Doctor Andersson,” a fresh-faced young maid whispered, holding out her hands. For a moment he wondered if she wasn’t about to embrace him before she nodded towards his shoulder and finally accepted his coat. “If you’ll wait here just a moment.” She hurried quietly away on the tips of her toes, carrying his coat out of sight. 

Outside, the brownstone had slipped neatly into line with the others. Clean columns and wide windows facing the street. Inside, he found himself in a different world. A chandelier unlike any he’d ever seen cast prisms of light around the entirety of the foyer and upper landing, turning on some sort of mechanism to keep it in constant motion. The floor was a mosaic of multicolored crystals, a winding labyrinth through which the lights cast by the chandelier moved like little explorers.

It was a stunning work of engineering and artistry: a whole world composed of color and reflection. 

The door to the left opened and the maid stepped back, beckoning him into a parlor. “Please help yourself to tea,” she spoke quietly, indicating the silver tray laden with porcelain pot and cups on the table. “The Earl and Countess will attend you shortly.” She bobbed a curtsy, then tiptoed from the room closing the door behind him. 

The parlor was a softer touch than the foyer. Beaded cushions on a warm green sofa and settee. A high backed brocade armchair near the fireplace. 

He peered at the panels on the walls. There must be some hidden door. There was only the one entrance visible from where he sat and that was the door that he’d entered through, but she’d been inside… 

What was he supposed to do? Sit on their couch? Pour tea from their pot? Sip and make himself comfortable?  _ Comfortable _ ? He wanted to laugh. The bookshelves alone were probably worth more than he made in a year. 

He looked down at his old, scuffed boots, the heel nearly worn through. Earl and Countess? Maker, what was he  _ doing _ here? 

Anders turned the room in a slow circle, a large painting of the denizens of the house sitting together, smiling for the artist. They seemed so happy, the three of them, Lord Pavus standing behind his wife, steady, warm smiles on their still faces. The toddler in her arms giggling madly and staring at his mother. Poor little thing. He hoped they would actually let him see the boy and that this wasn’t simply a ruse to appease Lord Everens. He scrubbed a hand through his scruff, frowning at the portrait.

“Is something amiss?” The cultured voice came from behind him. 

“No,” Anders snapped to attention, turning on his heels, staring at the man, trying to keep his jaw from dropping off his face like it nearly had the evening prior. “Your…” he swallowed, “appointments are quite striking.”

“Are they?” The earl stepped inside, his dark grey gaze taking an inventory of the room in a sweep. His suit was tailored within an inch of its life, sewn as though it were embracing him, silver on black on blue, layers of texture and movement. “Thank you.” He crossed past him, smelling of spices, and sank into the armchair, gathering the pot and cups. “Sit.”

Anders stood, staring after him, blinking slowly before registering what he’d been asked. “Oh.” He pulled his case to his chest, letting his legs collapse under him and heavily onto the sofa. He decided to stare just to the side of the man’s ear to avoid meeting the gaze of unquestionably the most beautiful man he’d ever seen. “Yes. Hmm. Lord Everens didn’t give me many details on your son’s condition. Would you mind running me through what you know?”

“He was taken with scarlet fever. We all were.” Even his ear was beautiful, a shell of sun-warmed skin framed by dark hair that looked soft to the touch. Anders felt the heat rising to his cheeks, trying to focus on the earl’s words.“But when we recovered, he lingered. None of the treatments that had aided us seemed to have any effect. And when finally his fever broke, he was left damaged.” He said the word with a crisp clip and winced at it. “Now, his fevers come and go. He can’t bear to move for pains we cannot find a cause for. He’s exhausted.” He sounded exhausted himself, but he offered the cup of tea that he’d poured. “We do not need platitudes. If there is nothing to be done, then it would be best that we learn how best to manage what will come.”

Anders nodded slowly, frowning as he accepted the cup. “I understand; it doesn’t help anyone in the long-term to offer false hope.” He blew a plume of steam off the top; ginger and honey. “I’ll do what I can for him, though. What is the lad’s name? I never actually had the chance to ask; it seems a near impossibility to get in a word when your father-in-law means to speak.” He cleared his throat. “Begging your pardon. I’m unaccustomed to such…” he tapped his fingers against the ceramic, watching the ripples in the tea. “Illustrious company.”

“Julius,” Pavus said quietly. “His name is Julius.”

“He’s awake, Dorian,” a woman’s voice called softly from the door. The countess was as breathtaking as her husband, with a similarly dark complexion and eyes that seemed as fathomless as the earl’s were silvered; the wide sweep of her crimson silk skirts made her seem all the more petite and fragile, and the dark braids piled atop her head might as well have been some manner of obsidian crown. She stopped short, appraising Anders with a slight frown. “Your predecessors all promised much more than they were able to provide. I suspect you will be much the same. Regardless…” she sighed, slipping to the earl’s side. “We may as well try. My father was keen enough on it.”

“I greatly prefer action to empty words, my lady.” Anders inclined his head towards them both. He’d dealt with more reluctant patients in the past, across the sea. Villagers who had distrusted him because he was an outsider. Even tried to kill him a few times. Nearly had, once. “It’s best for everyone, I’ve found. If he’s awake, might I have your leave to examine him? I don’t want to take up more of your time than necessary.”

The earl patted his wife’s hand lightly. “We’ll go up to him.” 

The boy’s room was bright from the sun bearing through the window. Shelves full of books and toys, a carved rocking horse in the corner, a box of rods and wine corks. There were charcoal drawings pinned to strings across the wall. Loved. The whole room felt lived in, touchable in a way that welcomed exploration. The boy in the bed was surrounded by cushions, tiny and frail, with wide dark eyes like his mother and the same dark hair and wide mouth as his father. He reached out as soon as they entered and the countess moved to his side, smoothing his hair back from his forehead. The earl moved to the window and crossed his arms, watching them steadily. 

“Hello, Julius,” Anders crossed cautiously towards the boy, dropping to his knees when he reached the bed to peer into the boy’s eyes, setting his tools on the floor. “You’re quite the artist, aren’t you?”

“I like to draw.” His voice was rough from coughing. His eyes were shadowed with weary circles, wary as they watched him. “Do you like to draw?”

“I’ve drawn a few cats and stick figures,” Anders chuckled, “but I’m afraid I’ve no talent for it. Perhaps you could teach me a bit later? I’m Anders. I’m hoping we might be friends?”

“I’m not allowed to see my friends,” the boy’s lip trembled. “I might make them sick.”

“Ah, well, I’ve already had what you’ve got. Quite some time ago, in fact. I know I’m a poor substitute for yours, but…” Anders crossed his eyes and wrinkled his nose. “I can make pretty good faces. And I’ve got half a hundred stories.” No rashes anymore, but his color was far too light, graying; his hands shook and his breaths were raspy and low. “Are you hurting, little one? In your fingers and your chest?”

“Hands,” Julius leaned into the circle of his mother’s arms, peering back at him. “It hurts to walk and talk.” He coughed, then winced as his fingers spasmed. “You’re a doctor. The other doctor made me walk and talk. It hurt a lot.”

“That’s not very nice, is it?” Anders frowned slightly, watching him. Not particularly helpful, in his state, either. Fresh air and exercise wouldn’t be enough for him; the disease had progressed too far already. “I know we just met,” Anders said softly, looking between his parents, “but would you mind if I spent a moment with him? Would you mind, Julius?”

“What, alone?” The earl narrowed his eyes, straightening. “Why?”

“I-“ Anders’ brow furrowed, “don’t usually treat patients with an audience.”

“You don’t usually treat the heir to Pavus, Qarinus, and Landsbridge, either.” Pavus lifted his brows. “We’re none of us squeamish. We’ll stay. Almila?”

“Without a doubt.” She held her son more tightly, peering across the room towards her husband. 

“Alright.” Anders puffed out his cheeks, massaging his temples. He felt a deep ache in his bones, watching his words carefully. “I’d rather not- Some of my methods might seem a bit unconventional, but I trained right here in the city. I… picked up a few... things on tour. If I’m able to help- Can you give me your word the details will stay within this room?”

Pavus strayed from the window, crossing to the foot of the bed. “Alma?”

She nodded slowly, above the little boy’s head. “If he can help, yes. Anything.”

“Go on.” The earl smoothed his thumb across his mustache, watching Anders carefully. “We’re simply marvelous with secrets.”

Anders moved to sit beside Julius, unzipping his bag and taking out his stethoscope. Not that he needed it to listen to the poor child’s lungs; he could hear they were fluid-filled from his cough. He was more concerned about his heart. “Can I sit by you?” he asked the boy gently, taking care to avoid his hands. “I’ll be as quick as I can, alright?”

Julius blinked up at him, then looked to his mother. “Mama?” he asked. 

“I’m right here, dewdrop.” She pressed a kiss to his forehead. “We’ll try once more, yes? And then I’ll bring you some sweet cream.”

Julius sniffled, shutting his eyes and leaning against her. Minutes, they’d been talking to him, and already the boy seemed exhausted. “Okay.”

Anders exhaled, the eyes on him making him shiver. In twenty years, he’d never shown anyone what he’d learned- But Julius was sick, as poorly off as his parents had hinted at. Heir to Qarinus and all that didn’t matter so much as he was a little slip of a thing and hadn’t even had a chance. 

“A bit cold, here, but it will only be a moment.” He flexed his fingers before pressing the stethoscope to the boy’s chest, listening for the whisper he was afraid to hear and catching it on the third beat. The disease had set into his heart, as he’d expected. Without intervention, he’d not last until the end of next year.

He slipped the instrument back into his bag and waved his hands over the child, eyes closed, breathing deeply. The thrumming of infected tissues, heart, joints, lungs, throat, tongue, skin- The pain pulsed in his own body, a mirror of his patient’s. Too much, too much to handle all at once. Ease his breathing first. The cough. The active infection. He could treat the rest over time, slowly, if he was permitted. Crackling ozone radiated from his fingertips, diving deep into the child’s lungs and working through the damage, bit by bit. 

Piece by piece, Anders began the slow process of patching him up from the inside out, debriding dead tissue to be cleared when he coughed. Healing Julius until he was wavering on his own feet. 

He nearly stumbled as he stood from the bed, wiping sweat from his brow. “I need a-“ The room was spinning. “Might’ve overextended myself a touch. It’s a start, though. It could feel worse before it improves, but I’ve a tonic that should take some of the sting and help with sleeping in my bag...” He tried to catch his breath, gazing at the boy. “Julius? How are you, little one?”

Julius opened his mouth to answer, but coughed instead, eyes watering, black tissue expelling onto his white sheets among foaming spittle. For minutes, there was nothing but the sound of the boy’s crackling cough, the splatter of dead tissue congealing - first onto the sheets, then onto the cloths that his mother held before his mouth. 

Anders felt himself sway again, then still as strong hands closed over his elbows, guiding him to a rocking chair. 

The earl stepped away, uncapping a small bottle from inside his jacket and whisking it through the air, stoppering it and returning it to his pocket. “Was it a curse?” he asked quietly.

“The origin was certainly mundane, but the damage was extensive. If it was a curse, it was subtle. Children are more susceptible to complications from scarlet fever; it could well have simply been that.” He closed his eyes, listening to the poor little fellow hack up a lung. Too much. He could feel his pulse thrumming in his ears and still the child was in so much  _ pain _ ; he could sense it from across the room. “I’ll want to see him again tomorrow if it’s no trouble. I can make some potions and tea that will help him heal later, but other than that I’ll be rather useless the rest of the day.”

The coughing was beginning to die down, and Julius exhaled an exaggerated sigh- clear. A crystal clear sound. He’d need rest and hot soup and repeat attention still, but his breathing would be easier this evening at least.

Pavus went to the side of the bed and spoke low, something that sounded like Latin, peering down at his wife and child. 

Not a word of thanks for saving the kid’s life. Suspicion and whispers. Nobles were all the same. At least Julius might stand a chance now.

The countess glared at her husband and held the little boy closer, replying clipped in that language he didn’t understand. She wiped the sweat and spittle from Julius’ lips, whispering in her son’s ear, kissing his brow when he replied in that same lilting tongue, his voice steadier than it had been shortly before.

“We have a guest room on this floor,” the earl said, turning back to Anders with a slight dip of his head. A curl fell across his brow and he blew it out of his eyes. “Come with me. I’ll see you settled for the day.”

Anders stood slowly, stumbling as the rocking chair moved from under him. Gods, he was weary. Feet one behind the other as he followed Pavus from the room. He could sleep for a century, but he didn’t like the way the master of the house had glanced at him after he’d helped his son. Narrowed eyes, hackles raised. Probably more dangerous than he’d suspected. Could throw Anders into the river and no one would notice. He shivered, swallowing slowly. “He seems a good fellow, your boy,” Anders said, trying to keep the waver from his voice.

“Yes. He is.” Pavus opened a door into a colorfully appointed room. He set Anders’ case on the mahogany desk near the window and turned back towards him. “What do you need, for your potions and tonics?”

“Alcohol, in large quantities. Elfroot, embrium, deep mushroom - the kind that glows blue, not green - and a few ounces of prophet’s laurel as far as reagents.” He blinked slowly at the fellow, eyes already drooping. “Alembics, graduated cylinders, gloves and goggles, and a few burners. I could get the glassware from my place, but-“

“There’s no need. I have alchemical supplies here. I’ll send someone for the reagents.” Pavus waved him towards the bed. “You look dead on your feet. Rest. The bell by the door will call the staff if you have more mundane needs, or if you think of anything else. Dinner is at six.” He crossed to the wardrobe, drawing out a smooth blue nightshirt and setting it on the bed. “I’ll send up a change of clothes.” 

“No false hope,” Anders said quietly, sitting on the edge of the bed. “I don’t think he’ll be much of an athlete, but he should improve, with the proper treatment.” He peered up at that perfect, sculpted face with a small, slight smile, kicking off his boots. “I’m optimistic he’ll be drawing again soon enough.”

“So long as he’s happy and well,” Pavus’ brows furrowed. “I have no expectations for him.” He turned to the door. “You’ll have your hundred aurens, Andersson. And a thousand if you can help him past the rest of his pain. I’ll leave you to rest and think on it.”

“I don’t need to think on it,” he smiled slightly, pulling a quilt up to his chest, closing his eyes against the pillow. “You’re too generous; I would’ve done it for free. I have a soft spot for kids. He deserves to grow up loved; it’s a rare enough thing.”

“Too true,” he heard the muttered words as the door clicked shut. 

Anders exhaled slowly on the softest pillows he’d ever rested his head on. A pile of clouds. A man could sink in and get lost forever in their depths. He rubbed his cheek against the silk pillowcases.  _ Silk _ . Could’ve made a lifetime supply of sutures from this bed alone. Madness. A thousand aurens? He hardly knew what to do with a hundred.

He’d need to give his hearty thanks to Linius when it was done. Maybe he could open up a little medical school attached to the clinic. Maybe-

Anders sighed, enveloped by soft warmth until the tide whisked his thoughts away.


	3. Down the forest path I fled

## Dorian

“We don’t know anything about him,” Dorian frowned, collecting his books and ledgers from the marble counters of his lab and packing them away. “If your father had known he was a _practitioner_ , I should think he would have said. Who trained him? Where does he source his power from? Who might we be indebted to?” 

“You’re asking me as though I have any of the answers.” Almila placed a bookmark in the text she was reading and set it aside. “You could’ve inquired before you decided it was prudent to murder him.”

“I did inquire,” he snapped. “I asked _you_.”

“You certainly did. Right in front of our son, who is now able to _breathe_ for the first time in months.” She fixed him with a gaze as cool as marble. “Did you want him to die, Dorian? Is that what this is about?”

He caught his breath to growl, to snap, to demand how she could even think to accuse him of such a thing- but of course she could. And should. She should do whatever was necessary to protect Julius. It was part of the reason he cared for her: that backbone and ferocity. “No,” he answered, swallowing the hurt. “I am sorry that you have to ask.”

“I know you’d prefer we weren’t here,” she said, thumbing the spine of her book, “but I won’t have you take it out on Julius. It’s not his fault.” Almila sighed, shaking her head. “You could stay in the city, you know. Work undisturbed. You don’t need to come with us to the countryside.”

“Is that really what you think?” he asked quietly, watching her. “That I wish to be rid of you? Either of you?”

“I really couldn’t say,” Almila peered up at him. “I’ve tried everything I can think of to make you happy and it’s seemed to me you’re most content in my absence. What am I supposed to think?”

“How could you possibly know how I feel in your absence? You’ve no method of gathering data on the subject.” He heard his father’s chill tone in his voice and flinched from it. Retreated. Crossed to the footstool beside her chair. “Alma. I’m terribly fond of you. I am trying to protect you and Julius. That’s all I’ve ever- That is all that I hope for. That you will both be well and content.”

She placed her hand on his shoulder, stroking his cheek. “You’re beautiful, you know,” she murmured, resting her chin on his head. “Beautiful and so terribly unhappy, pulling away from me like I’ve stung you when I try to soothe your aches. What have I done to make you so discontent?”

“Nothing.” And it was true. She was and had been his dearest and closest friend. It wasn’t her fault that he couldn’t love her as she was meant to be loved. 

“Then what?” she whispered, running her fingers through his hair. “Why do you walk through our home like a ghost?”

Why, indeed. Dorian sighed. “I would tell you if I could.” If he could. If he could put words to the enigma of his turmoil. She deserved something more. He thought of the sound of her laughter mingling with Julius’, floating up from the garden maze in the warm sunlight only the summer before. Mere months ago, they’d been happy. Playing chess in the evenings as Julius slumbered on the couch, hands blackened from his coal. Devising new experiments and preparing new papers to be delivered in the fall. Papers they’d never even published, as they’d one by one taken the fever that was storming the whole of the city. “I am sorry,” he said again, resting his hand on her arm. “I couldn’t protect us from this. I’ve failed you. I’ve failed him.”

“You’re being ridiculous and you know it. How could you possibly have done so?” Almila pressed a gentle kiss to the top of his head. “I’m sorry for snapping at you. Stop speaking of failure and help me care for our son.”

Dorian rested his head to her shoulder, closing his eyes. “This doctor… Should we bring him to the country with us? Let him continue his work?”

“If Julius improves, I don’t intend to let him leave,” she hummed. “He sounds better already, Dorian. I didn’t think it was possible.”

“It could be a trick. Some film flam meant to weaken us, or him. Or simply take advantage of our means.”

“Julius is all I _have_ ,” she protested, her breaths growing short. “I’d give him all of my inheritance if I thought it meant I’d be able to watch my boy grow up.” 

“I know, Alma.” He leaned back, smoothing the flyaway curls that had escaped her bun. “I know. I only want to make certain that will happen. I offered Andersson a thousand auren and the man barely blinked. There’s something… several somethings about him I don’t understand. We can’t fully trust him, not until we know what it is that he wants from us.” He hesitated, watching her: the points of red rising in her cheeks, the wildness in her eyes. “You don’t agree?”

“You can’t see anything decent in the world without raising your brows.”

“Well.” He frowned, quirking one such at her. “You’ve met my mother.”

“I have. She’s none too fond of me.” She rolled her eyes, smiling slightly. “Far below the station of her precious son.”

“At first, perhaps.” He slipped to the arm of the chair, tucking an arm around her shoulders. “She’s warmed to you considerably; it takes a carefully honed thermometer to measure, given the ice floe.” He hugged her gently. “So you think the doctor is simply a decent fellow, who happens to practice a magick unlike any we are familiar with and has no interest in wealth or privilege.”

“I think he’s done more than anyone else so far and I’m willing to wait and see.” She raised her hand slowly to touch his cheek. “What do we have left to lose?”

“Everything.” Dorian cupped her hand, smiling ruefully. “But I’ve never been led astray by your judgment. You know best.” He kissed her fingers lightly and withdrew, “I should finish this before dinner so the man has a space to work.”

“Let me help you;” she rose and stepped to his side, running her hands across his shoulders. “It’ll be faster with the both of us.”

“I-“ Dorian paused, nodding. “Thank you. I appreciate it.” He patted her hand gently. “He’s sleeping?”

“He’s sleeping,” she agreed quietly. Almila held his gaze, then turned to her own notebooks, unused for months, setting them in boxes next to his. “Deeply. Not tossing like he usually does.”

“Good. That’s good.” He layered paper around each notebook. Each reference book. “I love him. I do.”

“I know,” she murmured, packing away a set of instruments and filling the crate with straw. “In your own way. I’m sorry to have suggested otherwise. He misses you.”

“I do not wish to make him feel as though he needs to be fixed.” Dorian fitted the lid to the crate. “I do not know how to solve this problem - this illness - and I can’t help but think of it. You can look at him and see past it. He’s safer with you.”

“You’re his father; he needs you, too.” Almila brushed her hair back, retying her ribbon. “It takes practice, just like anything else. You didn’t become a chemist overnight. You can hardly expect to be a perfect parent by avoiding him.”

“I can avoid being a terrible one that way, though.”

“Dorian,” she sighed, kissing his shoulder. “You wouldn’t be terrible. He idolizes you.”

“He idolizes me because he doesn’t know me.” He glanced at her. “When he’s old enough not to be scarred by my imperfections, I’m certain we’ll get along perfectly well.”

“You’re too sharp with yourself. You always have been.” She began clearing off another shelf and packing away its contents carefully. “Come with me to read to him tonight. You’ll see. He wants to be with you.”

“I’ll think on it.” He eyed the profile of her face. Tired. Tired of the illness. Tired of him. Boundless when it came to Julius. She was meant to be a mother. She deserved a practical gaggle of munchkins tugging at her skirts. Instead, she’d gotten Dorian, a lost soul that would always haunt them, and Julius. How could he explain to her that his presence would only dim the warmth that she and the boy generated between them? How could he bear to take anything away from that bond, that connective warmth and safety that his son found in her arms? “If he can manage the shore, I’ll take him to look for formations in the stone.”

“I hope so, darling,” she said, turning back to him with a small, sad smile. “It would please me to see the two of you spending time together again.”

He thought of the days and nights - months of them - he’d spent hovering over Julius’ crib. Waiting. Watching. Touching the baby’s chest as he slept just to know that he was breathing. The oaths he’d made in the dim hours as he’d scratched wards and protective runes into the wood surrounding his son. He’d sworn never to be like his own father. He’d promised to be grateful for the boy as he was, to not ask more from him than he could manage, to coax him towards a life that would bring him joy. He’d done alright, those first months, that first year. Then he’d heard his father’s voice snake out of him. He couldn’t remember what it had been. Trying to eat a marble? Licking the side of a flask? Julius had been putting everything in his mouth at the time. 

No. It was better that he maintained distance and allowed Almila to raise Julius in the gilded circle of her warmth, in order to prevent the child from having memories of calculating eyes and endless inadequacy. 

They’d cleared the lab space of signs of their work early enough to enjoy a couple of hours of relative peace. Hour by hour, the house was emptying. Crates gathering in the lower floor to be shuffled north. A few more days and they would be letting the London staff close up the house but for the most basic necessities, trekking towards the sea-side. Shutting down just as the Season was barely beginning, but what else was there to do? The city was dangerous until the illness receded. 

At a certain point, he wondered if his tailor would manage to come through, but the package arrived at half past five and he sent Terrence up to the doctor’s room with it. How Andersson could stand to walk about in such an ill-fitting suit was bewildering. A doctor should have made a reasonable enough income. It was a lauded profession. Yet the man looked like he hadn’t had a new suit in a decade. Or _boots_. Those were atrocious. 

To Dorian’s horror, when the doctor finally emerged from his bedchamber, he’d neglected to don any of his new clothing, his shoddy suit dwarfing him everywhere but in the shoulders, ancient boots laced up to mid-thigh. He smiled warmly and ran a hand through his sleep tousled hair and tied it back with a mismatched ribbon. 

Dorian winced at the sight. He was grateful for the work the doctor had done for Julius, but how was he meant to eat while that suit was in eyesight? 

“Is something the matter?” Andersson straightened, his expression growing serious. “Julius is still alright, isn’t he? Should I check on him?”

“He is much improved. He woke a little while ago and took his dinner upstairs as we are reluctant to put him through the agony of further motion today.” He poured himself an aperitif and tried not to think of ill-fitting shoulders. “If you are amenable, we would be glad to have you look in on him after the meal.”

“Of course,” Andersson nodded, glancing about the room with wide eyes. “I was about to suggest the same. I’m glad to hear he was able to eat something; I’m assuming he’s lost quite a bit of weight since he took ill?”

“Yes.” Dorian cleared his throat, peering down into his glass. “Madeira?” He looked up, lifting the crystal.

“I haven’t had alcohol in twenty years.” Andersson remained standing, admiring the remaining books on the shelves. “I hope you don’t take offense.”

“Not offense, no.” Dorian sipped. Pity, definitely. Little wonder the fellow looked so bedraggled. He must be utterly miserable. “Was I wrong about the size?”

“Size?” He turned to face Dorian, tilting his head, then flushing. “Oh. No. I… couldn’t exactly surmise how to put all the pieces together.” Andersson laughed uncomfortably, the tips of his ears growing rosy. “What’s the purpose of all those buckles?”

“I’m starting a trend.” He lifted his brows. “And you don’t need to know how to put them together. It’s a suit, not a puzzle. That’s why Terrence came up to assist you.”

“Oh. I thought he was just feeling a little grabby,” the doctor bit his lip on a laugh. “That makes a good deal more sense.”

“‘Grabby’?” Dorian narrowed his eyes. “The fellow’s a grandfather and has been a loyal member of my household since I was in short pants. You think I would have someone of low caliber in my staff?”

“I said it left me a little baffled,” he shrugged, “and you can’t tell me you’ve never met a handsy grandfather before.” Andersson looked him up and down, honey-brown eyes crinkling at the corners. “On second thought, maybe you haven’t.”

The glance was offensive. Should have been, he was certain. The back of his neck felt too warm. He finished the tiny glass of Madeira in a gulp and poured himself another. “You were in the army. Do I have that right?”

“I was. Five years of service to pay for my medical school.”

“I see.” Dorian inclined his head. “I trained in the regiment, but I wasn’t able to deploy; there was a need in Parliament.” He sipped. “How was it?”

“How was-“ Andersson blinked at him, flexing his hand at his side. “How do you _imagine_ it was? I lost-“ He exhaled sharply, turning back towards the shelves. “I apologize. That was untoward.”

“Tough racket, was it? One doesn’t know until one asks.” He watched the doctor’s back. Shapeless cloth, worn at the seams, hiding his frame as effectively as a sack. 

“I watched my entire platoon die before my eyes. Bleed out in my arms, shrapnel tearing apart bodies of men who were scarcely old enough to drink, faces so unrecognizable we couldn’t tell them apart except for the tags about their neck.” Andersson didn’t turn towards him, his voice clipped and hollow. “So yes. ‘Tough racket’. I’d thank you not to remind me again, if it’s not too much trouble.”

Disagreeable. That was the word. Disagreeable and strange. Didn’t bat an eye at a year’s wages. Didn’t seem to understand how many rungs below them he stood. Accused his manservant of being a fiddler. Joked one moment and read him a riot act the next. Made no effort to ingratiate himself in the least. 

It was like sharing a room with a wild animal. Fascinating. 

He lifted his glass as Almila stepped into the sitting room. “Madeira?” he offered, smiling.

“A touch,” she brushed a hand across his shoulder, taking a seat beside him. “Not too much before dinner.”

The doctor exhaled slowly, rubbing his temples before claiming a settee of his own, across from them. He inclined his head slightly towards them. “I should have a full set of elixirs by morning, enough for… Two weeks? I’ve got some for general respiratory ailments already, but a bit more specificity would be more effective.”

“It’s a start,” Almila hummed. “We might have need for more when we retire from the city.”

“I can send you steady shipments, if they help,” Anders offered, crossing and uncrossing and crossing his legs again, as though unsure of how precisely to sit. “Whatever Julius requires, my lady.”

“How kind of you,” she smiled, placing her hand lightly on Dorian’s, smiling with a warmth he hadn’t seen in weeks as he passed her a small glass of Madeira. “Julius ate an entire bowl of soup and half his toast. We’re ever so grateful for your help, doctor. I hope you’re feeling welcome in our home; it’s a bit out of sorts with our upcoming travel.”

“It’s lovely, Lady Pavus,” Andersson smiled, lacing his fingers together around his knees. “I slept better than I ever have. Your pillows are a gift from the gods themselves.”

“Well-“ she tilted her head to the side, appraising him. “I’m very glad you’re comfortable. We’d like to offer our guest room to you for the week, if you’re amenable. It’ll be easier than taking a carriage back and forth every day and I’d sleep better knowing you’ll be here to check in on Julius in the evenings.”

“I’d be happy to do so,” the doctor grinned, brushing a loose strand of hair back behind his ear. “So long as I’d not be a burden.”

“Of course not,” she chuckled, swirling her glass, “it’s no trouble at all. We’re happy to have you.”

“Yes. Thrilled.” Dorian squeezed her hand gently and rose to refill his glass. “Where did you say you trained?”

“Four years of medical school at the University of London, but I learned more in the field than in lecture halls and auditoria.” He frowned, flexing his fingers. “For better or worse.”

“For better, I should think. Given our current state of affairs.” Dorian allowed the wine to roll over his tongue. Sweet and spice, dark and deep. “The… third of our attempts was a graduate of St. Bart’s. Kept trying to insist we let him cut the boy open.”

“The disease _is_ affecting his heart, unfortunately.” Andersson sighed low, scrubbing a hand through his beard. “But the risks associated with surgery are greater than the risk of heart failure and he’s not healthy enough as it is. Better to treat everything else and monitor his circulation rather than jumping immediately to surgery.”

“Yes, and with the way the man’s hands were shaking, I wouldn’t have let him cut a thigh from a turkey let alone come within ten feet of my son.” Dorian finished the glass, considering the dregs. His heart. He gritted his teeth. Gods and monsters, what was happening to the child? 

“What was the physician’s name?” He raised a brow, peering at Dorian curiously. “It wasn’t Jameson, was it?”

“Who can remember? The chap was lucky to get out the door in one piece.” Dorian flashed a quick, sharp grin before turning to refill his glass again. 

“Is that so?” Andersson’s eyes narrowed as his smile slipped sideways. “A dangerous position I’ve found myself in, then.”

“Only if you prove yourself incompetent or untrustworthy,” Dorian brushed his fingers down his sleeve, smirking over the rim of his glass. “Are you?”

“If I were untrustworthy I certainly wouldn’t tell you,” the man chuckled, leaning back against the crushed velvet of the settee. “Unless I was also incompetent.”

“And this,” Dorian gestured towards him with his glass, meeting Almila’s gaze as he joined her on the settee, “is why I did not previously inquire.”

“He has a point,” she grinned, nudging him lightly with her shoulder, sipping her drink slowly.

“What is it you wish to know of me?” the doctor glanced between the two of them. “I don’t lead a very interesting existence, certainly not by your standards.”

“No? But you have such _very_ interesting talents.” Dorian leaned back, resting his glass on his knee. “Southern field training?”

“No.” Andersson became suddenly preoccupied with the pattern on the rug. “I’m sure you’ve heard tales of spirits? They’re- I didn’t think-“ He scrubbed a hand through his hair. “They’re worshipped in the other parts of the world. They believe that during times of suffering- There’s hardly a more visceral sort of misery than war.”

Dorian glanced at Almila, sitting forward with his glass. “Worshipped? By whom? Individually or by tribes? Or is it clans? I can never keep the terms straight. Did you communicate with them directly or through a medium?”

“It came to me when I was in need,” he murmured, massaging the backs of his hands with long, calloused fingers. “I wasn’t looking.”

“Perhaps a different topic of conversation, darling,” Almila said quietly in Latin. “He doesn’t seem to want to discuss it further.”

“Then he shouldn’t have brought it up again,” Dorian answered her in kind, lifting his brows. “How are we meant to discern the nature of his casting without being able to ask about it?”

“You brought it up,” she corrected gently. “And I suppose you’ll do what you will.”

“What precisely do you mean by that?” he frowned. “When have I done anything other than what you’ve asked?”

“I don’t want to have this discussion right now, Dorian.”

He pressed his tongue to the back of his teeth, rolling his neck, and quaffed his wine. Surrounded by people who were averse to questions. How was anyone meant to have an interesting conversation? “Have you traveled to the northern countryside, Doctor Andersson?”

“I haven’t, no.” He was eyeing them curiously, eyes softening with concern. “I hardly leave the East End at all, with work. There’s no shortage of people needing help.”

“I imagine not,” Dorian thumbed the lip of his wine glass. Drunks wandering the streets. He recalled the way the buildings had shifted and wobbled in the haze of a pint of gin. The scent of the gutter he’d stumbled into. The rough hand of the copper who’d dragged him to his feet and hustled him into a hansom to be berated for the last time by his father. “Shutting down those wheelbarrows must have helped somewhat.”

“Running water would help somewhat. Decreasing occupancy in the tenement houses would help somewhat. Banning drawing drinking water from south of the city would help somewhat. Having enough bread would help somewhat.” Andersson fixed him with a steady gaze, frowning slightly. “There are a thousand children like your boy dying in the streets. I see them every day. I’ve held their hands, consoled their parents, attended their funerals. I only have so much I can give them. The city is failing from the inside out. If your government truly wishes to help, they’ll do more than shut down wheelbarrows.”

“Our government? Is it not yours as well?”

“In theory?” He sniffed. “Fine. In practice? When was the last time an ordinance was passed to benefit the Lower Districts, not just to curb a certain way of life they’ve developed as a means of survival?”

“We brought Parliament the Reforms Bill just last year. Voting rights to over two hundred thousand men who had no access to representation previously? Which should, one would expect, allow them to elect members to further legislation that will benefit them in the future.” Dorian began. 

“Two hundred thousand men, half of whom can’t read their own names and couldn’t spell ‘legislation’ if it were written before them. Yes, very useful, that.” Andersson rolled his eyes, a slight smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “And if that bill ever does pass - which seems unlikely at this point - what if they were to try and elect someone sympathetic to the impoverished? How would such a campaign be run without access to capital?”

“Change takes time and appropriate circumstance. We had nearly all the votes needed for the Reform before the bloody Americans had to go tearing their democracy to shreds and doing a bang-up job of completely disheartening the Tories we’d managed to convince.” Dorian finished his wine and rose, “And that’s the bell. Dinner?”

“Yes,” Almila set her unfinished glass on the tray and stood beside him, lacing her arm through his. “Come along, you must be famished.”

The doctor glanced quickly around the room and followed them as they swept through the parlor, stopping every few steps to stare at something new.

“My darling,” Dorian drew out the chair for Almila.

She gathered her skirts around her and took the seat gracefully, smiling up at him with a look that was only slightly forced. “My love,” she murmured, patting him on the hand gently before he left to take his own chair.

Anders nearly tripped over the leg of his own as he scraped it indelicately across the floor. Dorian couldn’t be certain, but he thought he heard a muttered complaint about the number of forks on the table.

Gauche. Prickly. Opinionated. Ye gods, the _suit-_ Dorian dropped to his chair with the grace of training and muscle memory, fluffing his napkin and nodding to his empty glass and the red wine decanting on the table. Brigitte filled it wordlessly, curtsying as she stepped to and from his presence. 

That. That was how he was meant to be approached. With deference and fucking respect. He was an earl, wasn’t he? Hadn’t he bargained himself within an inch of his life for his position? Wasn’t he meant to be looked upon with awe and bloody wonder? 

He smiled at the girl fondly. She reported on him to his mother, he was almost sure of it. Another reason the city grated on him. He sipped his wine, surveying the movement of his household, the flicker of the candles, as soup was served, then fish, with barely a word spoken. The scrape of silver over porcelain grated at his nerves. He might as well have brought a book. 

He waved for another glass to be poured as the roast, stuffed capon was served. 

_Should_ have brought a book, he thought darkly. And likely everyone would be the gladder for it. Or thrown himself out into the foggy streets and waited to be mowed down by a carriage in full tilt. 

Oh, yes, he imagined Almila would transform into a very happy widow. Perhaps that would cheer her back to her former glory. The Maker knew he certainly couldn’t. ‘Make him happy’- As if she could. As if that were something any one person could do for another. No. The world was muck and lies and blood, everyone circling each other like vultures, and only the strongest and canniest survived. That was how it worked, how it had always worked. Perhaps the workmen who couldn’t spell ‘legislation’ were better for their ignorance. At least they only knew how terrible things were as far as they could see, and could imagine it was better farther afield. 

Diamante served the blancmange and in the utter, devastating silence of the meal, the platter clattered resoundingly as she placed it on the table. 

He held his breath, gaze sweeping upwards for the shout and tears of Julius waking to the noise. One count to wake. A second to discover the cruelty of existence. Dorian stood as the wail echoed, ghostly, through the house, then stopped as impulse gave way to logic. What on earth was he meant to do? Comfort the child? He was right to wail. He was in agony. He was trapped in this cage with the rest of them, weighed down - his very life threatened - by the incompetence of his elders. Perhaps Dorian could join him; fall on the floor and weep in concert. Or take his son’s pains into himself and allow them to give physical torment to the existential torment that plagued him. 

“I’m so sorry, my lord,” Diamante was whispering, backing away from the table. 

“Not your fault,” he murmured, watching the ceiling. He dropped his gaze to the table. “Well, doctor, your services wouldn’t go amiss.”

“I’ll go with you,” Almila said, rising quickly to her feet, skirts swishing behind her. “Diamante, if you’d be kind enough to send our plates to Julius’ room I would be grateful.”

“Yes, my lady,” she said, rushing off towards the kitchen. 

Almila placed a kiss on his cheek, quick and chaste, before ushering the doctor from the room. So eager to be away from him. So eager to fall at their son’s side. Her only source of joy in the miserable house, now in jeopardy.

He quaffed the remainder of his wine as they took the stairs, following them as far as the foyer to watch them sweep across the landing and into Julius’ room, shutting the door behind them. 

She’d asked him to join her. 

She’d asked, but she clearly didn’t wish him near.

‘Did you want him to die?’ Her words echoed in his mind.

“My lord?”

“Ah, Terrence.” He collected his cloak. “See to it that someone keeps an eye on the good doctor at all times. He is welcome to the laboratory should he have a need of it. And if anything is remotely amiss, I ask that you call Jardian from the stables to take it in hand. Not before. We don’t need to spook the fellow.” 

“Yes, my lord.”

Dorian slipped the top hat onto his head, collecting his cane, and escaped into the fog and night, the clatter and dark. 


	4. Pride before his face is bowed

##  Almila

Her world had shrunk to the size of a child’s bedroom, teas and tonics, stories and sleeping, worry and waiting. Julius howled when they entered the room, reaching for her from his throne of pillows, but he quieted as soon as she held him again.

“Why did you leave, mama?” he sputtered out, his voice thick with tears, but for once, otherwise clear. 

“To eat with your father, my darling,” she hummed, pressing his cheek to her chest. “You sound better; are you feeling-“

“Why won’t father eat in here?” Julius sobbed, clutching at her bodice. “Why does he only see me when the doctors are here?”

“Hush,” she rubbed his back, singing a quiet melody her own nurse had once used. “Your father is a busy man.”

_ Why, indeed _ , she wondered, through the looping verses. Throughout Julius’ infancy, Dorian had doted on the child, holding him and watching over him as though he couldn’t imagine that they’d managed to finally create something so unequivocally  _ good _ together, after so many setbacks. 

The doctor pulled out two small bottles and filled a pair of spoons, holding them out to her. 

“First one’s the tonic, the second honey for the taste,” Andersson instructed. “They should be taken in that order. It’ll help protect the work we did earlier today, speed his healing, ease his breathing.”

She nodded and pressed a kiss to Julius’ forehead. “Alright, sweet, let’s take your medicine.”

He’d fought, once, when he realized how poorly they tasted. Not anymore. Julius opened his mouth and accepted the spoon, closing his lips around it and wincing. Almila handed him the honey spoon to slurp on as the doctor’s hands ghosted over the boy, eyes closed, a sharp metallic smell filling the air.

Once, she might’ve been as curious as Dorian about the source of the doctor’s powers. Once, she’d had an inquisitive mind of her own. 

It was how they’d met, after all, in truth, outside of the galas and salons. She’d donned a pair of her father’s breeches and pinned up her hair under an old bowler hat to attend a lecture series on biodiversity in the outer isles. So enthralled was she that she’d hardly noticed the handsome fellow sitting behind her, who eventually confronted her for her deception. Instead of escorting her to the rector, he encouraged her to continue the act. 

She’d loved Dorian from that very moment and had never stopped. He was as brilliant as he was beautiful, kind and fiery and fearsome, the most passionate speaker she’d ever had the privilege to listen to. He had half of the women in the city swooning over him, for his position if nothing else, but there she was, dressing as a man and sneaking into pubs with the fellow, laughing madly over ideas that got wilder and wilder as the evening drew on.

When Dorian asked her father for her hand, she imagined she was the luckiest woman in the world. It wasn’t often one had the privilege of marrying the person they’d fallen hopelessly for. He’d enjoyed the spectacle of the wedding, far more than anything that had come after. Marriage had chafed him, changed him, until he was scarcely recognizable as the man she’d been drawn to like a moth to a lantern. She slowly came to realize that she caused him more misery than joy and was left alone to wonder why he made excuses to avoid their bed or spend all day locked up in his study. His brilliant fire had been quenched by their marriage and nothing she’d done could bring it back. 

Julian coughed and sighed in her arms, flexing his tiny fingers as the doctor nearly fell back onto the floor. “You’re a tough lad,” Andersson mumbled against the mattress he rested his cheek on, eyes closed. “Better now than earlier and with rest, the ache in your fingers might subside.”

“Thank you,” the little boy exhaled, closing his eyes.

She drew circles in his hair, soft as swan feathers, just like her husband’s. Rhythmic and soothing, easing his breaths to slow back into the embrace of sleep. A familiar sort of dance they’d practiced night after night since he’d taken ill. Even when the fever had taken her as well, she came to his room to hold him, nearly delirious with malaise, she’d visited him to lull him into dreaming. 

Julius loved her, of that she had no doubts. Even as her husband grew more reserved and distant, her son’s adoration was palpable. She was of comfort to him, just as she was anathema to Dorian. It heartened her that someone reached for her when they were hurting, thought her arms were a balm rather than a blight. 

“He wasn’t always like this,” she murmured, cradling her sleeping son close, wishing she could will him whatever strength she had left. Almila didn’t know why she was speaking, couldn’t say why she was voicing the sorrow she’d held as tightly as Julius. 

“I should think not,” the doctor said, opening a single golden eye. He looked as weary as she felt. Perhaps he was willing his own strength into the boy; it certainly seemed that way. “Scarlet fever can cause plenty of complications in children-“

“Not Julius,” she sighed, “my husband.” Why was she still speaking? Dorian would hate her for it. “I thought we could be happy, once.”

He hated her already. It was of little import.

“Hmm,” Andersson breathed, sitting up slowly to peer at her. “Julius will recover. I’m fairly confident. I’m sure your cagey blighter of a husband will cheer up then.”

“‘Cagey’-“ She might’ve taken offense if it weren’t true. “Perhaps,” she hummed instead, knowing it was unlikely as having a man who practiced healing magicks drop out of the sky. 

“He drinks too much,” the doctor lifted a brow. 

She couldn’t disagree. He’d always drank, but now it seemed he couldn’t get through an evening with her without downing a bottle of port. “He’s unhappy.”

“A sick child will do that.”

“Do you think-“ she shook her head, frowning. The doctor had been a boon to them already, but they hardly knew the man. But his eyes were gentle and his smile sincere and he seemed the sort to tell the truth rather than hiding behind platitudes. “Might there be something wrong with me?”

“I can’t see how, my lady,” Andersson smiled sweetly. She felt a warmth rise to her cheeks as his eyelashes fluttered. “Do you have any lingering ailments? I could give you an examination at your leisure.”

“Oh,” she stammered, flushing, then feeling silly for it. He was a doctor, after all. It  _ was _ his purview. “Perhaps when Julius improves.”

The little boy cooed softly in his sleep, his little hands relaxing their swollen white-knuckled grip on her dress. Breathing clear for the first time in months. The tightness of pain easing from his brow. 

“Doctor,” she murmured, smiling slightly. “Thank you for all you’ve done so far.”

The fellow beamed, tired, dark circles even more stark under his eyes as he rose from his spot on the floor. “I’m glad I could be of help. Don’t hesitate to wake me if you’ve a need.”

She nodded, then leaned on the pillows, holding her son as she was meant to do.

##  Anders

Four days passed rather uneventfully in the Pavus estate. When he wasn’t tending to the boy, he busied himself with distilling reagents and brewing respiratory and immune potions for the lordling as well as a concoction to help them all with the travel north. Chatting with Lady Pavus when Julius inevitably tired and fell asleep in her arms.

She had to be the loneliest woman he’d ever encountered. The countess hadn’t mentioned her concerns about her husband again, but he could tell her thoughts often lingered on the subject when he poured himself a third or fourth or fifth or sixth glass of wine or brandy, drinking down liquor like he needed it to live.

Somehow, someway, in their gilded and polished home, he found himself pitying them.  _ Them _ . The countess and her little boy and even the man who seemed content to avoid them all for as long as socially acceptable. The earl of whositwhatsit was a complete and unabashed arse, but- He’d known enough of those that loosened up with a bit of attention. 

Maybe he was hiding something more interesting than bureaucratic platitudes under all those buckles.

Not his business. 

Anders just needed to see Julius through the week and maybe they’d be good for their promise to give him enough coin to open a clinic. He didn’t need a thousand aurens. A hundred would do just as well. Then he’d be back treating people who’d never held a hundred coppers at once, let alone gold.

He scribbled notes in the margins of the empty notebook Pavus had given him in the nearly empty study. The boy would still be sleeping for a time yet; perhaps he might get a bit of rest in himself while his tonics bubbled happily across the room.

“Saints and holy relics, she might actually have been right. Imagine that.” Pavus leaned against the doorframe, still wearing the rain-spotted top hat and overcoat that spoke to his recent return to the brownstone. Buckles where there should have been buttons, all gleaming over rich fabrics that probably cost the same as some people’s homes. “No one spying on you, yet here you are, nose to the grindstone.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t call you no one,” Anders hummed, resting his chin on his knuckles. So much for his nap. 

“Decent, she said. As if such a thing exists.” It was barely lunch and Anders could smell the brandy from the doorway. The earl tapped his cane lightly against the side of his boot. The crystal handle caught the candlelight and spun it around the room. He smirked, lazy as a predator, meandering into the study. “How can you bear it?” 

“Bear what?” Anders quirked a brow. The fellow depressed him. By all means, he should’ve been happy, but here he was, drinking at noon.

“The  _ ghosts _ , man. The ghosts.” He brushed his fingers over empty shelves. “Poor empty columns where knowledge once flourished.” 

“If you listen, they’ll whisper secrets in your ears.” Anders stowed his pen. It seemed he’d not be getting any work done either. “Is there a particular reason I’ve a ghost haunting me at the moment?”

“Ah, yes, of course. My apologies. Well aware when I’m not wanted.” He flashed a bright grin. “Alas, I have been instructed.” He raised his brows, flourishing a small note between his fingers. “And she says I do nothing for her. Well.” He peered at the folded paper, frowning slightly. “She’s right, I suppose. Usually.” 

“I can’t imagine she says that,” Anders took the letter from him, thumbing the seal. “From my short time knowing her, she’s spent nearly all of her time singing your praises or talking of your son.” He scanned the note, frowning up at him. “You wish me to leave the city?”

Pavus hummed in agreement, narrowing his eyes on the rain drizzling down the windowpane. He doffed his hat, tossing it up and catching it on the handle of his cane. “Quite. Concoctions lose their potency in the post. Much better if you’re there to work your magic, as it were,” he smiled slyly. “You said yourself the country would be better for him than the city. Surely your work will be all the more effective there. And the countess so appreciates having someone to talk to.” 

“What is it you spend all of your days doing?” Anders watched him, equal parts amusement and pity. “Drinking and not bringing forth legislation that could actually help people?”

“Spot on, well said.” He twirled the hat, popping it into the air and catching it atop his head with a short bow. “Clever, insightful fellow, aren’t you? Well?” He lifted his brows. “Will you join us? I’ll make it worth your while.”

“I have other patients in the city,” he folded and handed Pavus back the letter. “I’m disinclined to leave them. Thank you for offering, though.”

“Please.” The sardonic humor melted from his gaze, leaving his eyes a somber pewter. “You have given us a week and we are grateful for what you’ve done for him. Tonics won’t do what you can. He’s only a child.” He swallowed uncomfortably, his voice lowering. “He doesn’t deserve this. Please. I beg you.”

“I like your son. I do. He’s a sweet boy and I’ve hardly met someone more adoring than your wife. But why is his life worth more than my patients in town?” Anders sighed, giving him a small, sad smile. He wondered if anyone had ever told the man ‘no’ before. Lord Pavus could use a hearty string of rejections, it seemed. “Because you can pay for his treatment? Julius will likely improve when you retreat from the smog and pollution. If I leave them, they won’t.”

“You can return to the city by train. Weekends. I’ll pay your fare. I’ll pay for their care. He is our last hope. Do you understand? We cannot lose him. Not after we’ve already- It will destroy us both. It will kill her.” Pavus covered Anders’ hand with his own, dropping to his knees and bowing his head. “Please. He is so frail. His heart is so weak. I can feel it. It’s unbearable. Please.”

He bowed his head, closing his eyes and massaging his brows with his free hand, before placing it atop the earl’s with a sigh. “I can’t well say no to an appeal like that.” Seemed that someone else would need to temper the man’s ego; Anders certainly didn’t have the heart to look into those eyes and deny him. “Alright. I’ll travel north with you lot, so long as I can return once a week to look in on my patients here.”

“ _ Thank you _ .” He lifted his face. Like a living portrait, candlelit and pleading, grateful, silver eyes and cheekbones that could only have been made by a sculptor’s careful hand. “Thank you. I am in your debt. Thank you. Only let him live and live well.”

Anders exhaled, blinking as he stared at gilded perfection, tired eyes caught in golden marble. He nodded slowly, lifting his hand to touch the man’s cheek lightly. “He will. I’ll do all I can.” He withdrew his fingers and slipped his hands back into his lap. “I promise.” 

The air seemed to shudder out of the earl in a rush. Brandy  _ and _ whiskey, mixed with a blend of cardamom and sandalwood. Pavus sat back on his heels, shoulders slumped. “Good,” he breathed. “Good.” 

Anders watched him with a quiet curiosity, before offering a hand to the poor fellow. Beautiful, miserable wretch. “Sit,” he said quietly, tilting his head towards the sofa in the corner of the room. “Rest. I’ll put together something for your nerves.”

“My nerves are fine. I don’t matter.” His eyes sharpened on the offered hand and Anders could almost feel the heat from that gaze before Pavus looked away, climbing to his feet. “I am much relieved,” he said softly, “to have your assistance. Please give me an accounting of what you are owed.” He straightened his coat, collecting his hat to his chest. “I shouldn’t keep you further from your tasks.”

“In truth,” Anders smiled slightly, watching the mask slip back down upon the poor sod’s face. “I was about to rest while the alcohol was doing its work on my mushrooms, but I heard whispers from a spying ghost and thought I might listen to him for a time.”

“Am I a ghost, do you think?” Pavus asked quietly, a flicker of a smile curving his lips. “Is that a professional diagnosis?”

“Melancholia and alcoholism are more likely,” Anders brushed off the cover of his notebook. “But the root cause could be paranormal. I imagine most ghosts would be terribly sad to be stuck with the rest of us.”

The smile widened, self-deprecating. “The one that taught you how to heal my son. Were they sad?”

“They were-“ Anders exhaled low, recalling the ocean of blood he woke face-first in, his fingers stained crimson, his crisp uniform splattered. Empty. Lifeless. Fury and despair and frustration for all of the broken things, for the broken people, for  _ Karl- _ Maker’s tears, for Karl. “Angry. Indignant. Pained. They still are. Healing seems to satisfy the spirit in a sense, but I always have the prickling feeling I’m not doing enough.”

“I’m familiar with that sensation.” Pavus turned his hat in his hands, “There’s a very special torment in inadequacy. Like grit in one’s teeth. If the grit were knives.” He cleared his throat. “Well. This has been a cheerful little distraction. I believe I’ll float away now and leave you to your rest.”

“If it pleases you,” Anders inclined his head slightly, meeting Pavus’ crystal gray eyes again. Even the man’s eyes were gilded, tiny flecks of gold among molten silver. Had he imagined those moments of heat and hesitation? What possible reason could a man like him give such an expression to Anders? 

It wasn’t his business, he reminded himself. Shouldn’t matter how he felt. He had a job to do and it certainly didn’t involve delving into the likely unpleasant depths of the earl’s mind.

“Would it be pushing my luck to ask you to at least try the suit?” Pavus asked, peering down at his cane. “With the promise that Terrence has no designs on you.”

“I’ll consider it,” Anders smirked slightly, unable to help himself, “ _ if _ my lord would do me the honor of attending to my buckles himself.”

“Cheeky little bugger, aren’t you? Put an earl on his knees and still you dig.”

“I thought I’d try,” he shrugged, chuckling, turning back to his notes. “You’re very becoming when you beg.”

“Yes,” Pavus murmured, returning to the door. “So I’ve heard.”

“From the ghosts?” Anders offered, studying his profile. “It seems they’re very talkative in your home.”

“One of my many secrets, that. You should hear them chattering in the north. So many opinions about the orchards.” He bowed his head, “I’ll look in on you before dinner, doctor, to see how you fare with the complexities of interlocking silver.”

“I’ll look forward to it,” Anders winked, certainly more amused than depressed, now. Perhaps he did have something interesting under those needlessly complicated suits. “Good day, my lord.”

Pavus hesitated for the moment and swept from the room like the ghost they’d jested about him being.  _ Definitely _ heat. Perhaps he might have gleaned a suspicion about why the man was so disagreeable. 

It certainly wasn’t his business.

But then again, he was living in the household of the most handsome couple he’d ever set eyes upon. 

He shook his head, chuckling to himself and checking on the concoctions he had brewing, adjusting the heat slightly then settling down on the sofa to catch a quick nap before he attempted to don that perplexing ensemble the master of the house insisted he wear.


	5. Would I were the halcyon

## Dorian

He’d read the same sentence five times before he admitted to himself that he simply wasn’t going to be getting any further in the paper. His traitorous mind kept returning to the feel of skilled, calloused fingers in his hair and the floorboards beneath his knees. 

Shame. He was supposed to feel shame. He knew that well enough. Shame for his lack of comportment. Fury for letting this stranger hold him and his family hostage to his whims and his oddities. Disgust at the way he’d wanted to drag those fingers back to his face, his cheek- 

He hadn’t been able to meet the man’s eyes since. 

Nor Almila’s. 

Gods, to have behaved like such a _fool_. His father would have horsewhipped him. He’d done so for less. Speaking of ghosts and secrets. 

But the doctor was here, with them, and had sworn to see Julius back to health. Dorian’s pride and carefully crafted mask could stand some bruising if it meant his son would recover under a competent, watchful gaze. 

Too watchful. Too curious.

‘Decent’, indeed. 

No one decent guarded their secrets so dearly, nor ignored the laws of common society so flagrantly. 

No one decent wore such atrocious bloody boots.

He glanced up to find Julius’ steady eyes staring at him. So like his mother’s- dark and glittering night skies. So like Almila’s had been: full of trust and wonder. So like Almila’s were now: so very weary and cautious. 

Julius had wept when they’d loaded him into the carriage, then onto the train. Dorian had felt like a monster, carrying the boy as he wailed, hot tears stinging Dorian’s ear, reaching for his mother. Always. _Always_. And rightly so. She was his comfort and Julius was hers. 

“Yes?”

“What are you reading?” Julius asked. Clear. He’d screamed himself hoarse and collapsed in the booth in Almila’s arms for the first half of the journey, but now his cheeks were dry and his breathing was easy. 

“‘Cuvier considers it probable that whales sometimes live to the age of one thousand years. The dolphin and porpoise attain the age of thirty. An eagle died in Vienna at the age of one hundred and four.’” Dorian shook his head. “‘Ravens frequently reach the age of one hundred.’ Poppycock.”

“Will we see dolphins on the seashore, papa?” Julius asked, his little hands raking over the pages to touch the sketch of the creatures. Not nearly so swollen as they’d been. 

“Quite possibly.”

“What do dolphins eat in the ocean? Who brings them dinner? How do they eat, papa?”

“Dolphins eat fish, I believe.” He thought of the skull he’d found on the shore when he’d been a boy. “They’ve rows and rows of tiny teeth, though I suspect they’re too small to be of much use like ours. Not at all sure what their purpose is, to tell you the truth. In any case, I’m fairly certain their dinner brings itself to them.”

“Tiny teeth?” Julius’ eyes widened and he opened his mouth. “Tinier than mine? Can I see them?”

“I hope so, dewdrop,” Almila smiled, kissing his cheek and wrapping her arms more snugly around him. “Your father said if you’re feeling well, you can go together to look for fossils. Maybe you’ll meet a dolphin on your journey.”

“One that was once seized by a kraken,” Dorian murmured, lowering his gaze back to the paper.

“Not really a kraken, though?” Julius lifted his fingers and touched the curled tips of Dorian’s mustache. “Mama said they’re not real. _Are_ they? Big ones, the size of our house?”

“When did you tell him there weren’t krakens?” he asked, glancing to Almila. 

“When he was shivering scared of them.”

“I’m not scared anymore,” he smiled, wriggling in her arms. “Doctor Anders says I’m the bravest boy he knows.”

The doctor was leaning against the window of their berth, poring over journal articles of his own, seemingly lost to the world. But his lips curled into a smile when the boy mentioned his name. 

“There have been three carcasses found which appear to prove the existence of krakens, each at least the size of our country house.” Dorian peered down at the little fingers tugging at his mustache. “Gracious. And this idiot also says that swans have been known to live three hundred and sixty years. _Swans_.”

“I still won’t believe those carcasses until I’ve had a chance to look at them myself,” Almila raised a brow at him. “Why are you still reading it?” She passed him a printed manuscript, pointing to an article. “Here. Studies on electromagnetism. Much more controlled experiments.”

“Why does he print this nonsense? People believe what they read.” Dorian accepted the manuscript, wincing slightly as his mustache was tugged. “It’s akin to brainwashing, convincing people of- Swans. Honestly.” He frowned at the papers Almila had handed him, “When did you come across this?”

“A recent paper from the University,” the doctor hummed, glancing at the three of them over his own reading materials. “It’s not my area, but I thought it would be of interest. I picked it up with a few others when I grabbed my journals.”

That explained where it came from, but not why the doctor had thought it might appeal to them. Not to them. To her. Dorian glanced at Almila. What had she told him? What had he told her? Had he mentioned how Dorian had fallen before him, begging? No. She’d have said something. “I see.” He scanned the page. “You’re certain you’re finished? I’m afraid there isn’t much in this-” he shook his newspaper, “of any value unless you feel particularly inclined towards ennuie and frustration.”

“Ah, I’ll finish it when you’re done,” she smiled slightly, taking the newspaper from him and tucking it back in a file folder and readjusting Julius to lean against Dorian’s side. “I might just rest my eyes for a moment.”

“Mama, can I draw?” Julius cupped her face with his hands. “I want to draw a _kraken_.”

“Of course,” she breathed, the words slipping from her lips like a shiver. “Your hands are feeling better today?”

He opened and shut his fist, smiling. “They feel okay. I want to draw.”

Almila glanced up at Dorian, eyes glistening, before she dug in her bag for paper and his charcoals. “Here you are, turtle dove.”

“He can use the newspaper,” Dorian smirked slightly, lifting his chin when she looked back up. “Perhaps he’ll improve the articles.”

“I think you might be inclined towards ennui and frustration,” she raised a brow at him, a single eye closed. “Best to start fresh, to avoid having to look at the newspaper when we hang it on the wall.”

A low chuckle from the corner of their cabin, warm and pleased. The doctor’s eyes were still fixed on his reading, but his eyes were lined with mirth. He brushed a stray lock of golden blond hair back behind his ear. The man was at least wearing the suit Dorian had ordered for him with the horrid boots he’d shown up with. It had been impossible to tell under the baggy cloth he’d worn when they met, but the doctor had remarkably fine shoulders and a slim waist. Wrists that bordered on delicate.

Narrow hands. Long fingers. The scruff on his chin looked like flecks of gold in the sunlight. And he was lovely when he smiled. 

Dorian placed a hand on the sheet of paper, anchoring it for Julius to draw. He held the coal awkwardly, unfamiliar after months, but he _was_ holding it. Entrancing, the motion of his fist across the page. Images in his mind being brought to life, leaving echoes of it on his palm. His mind. His heart. What was wrong with his heart? How long before he caught something else? How fragile he was. 

How was Dorian meant to protect him from something like this happening again, chipping away at him? And if he couldn’t do at least that much, what good was he? 

“Steady fingers,” Andersson said quietly, golden eyes watching them with a doctor’s scrutiny. “Remarkably so, given everything else. Have you ever thought of practicing medicine, little one? You’d make a fine surgeon if you’ve the interest.”

“No,” Julius said, shading in the arch of what looked like a dorsal fin. “I’m going to be a scientist and explore the ocean and find a kraken.”

“A worthy quest,” the doctor grinned, “but have you yet learned to swim?”

“Only a little,” Julius admitted.

“Still more than me,” Andersson chuckled, resting his elbow against the window. “I’ve only crossed the ocean once and it was on a big boat. I never learned to swim.” 

“My papa is going to teach me. He could teach you, too,” the boy said absently, drawing a large smile on the dolphin he’d made. “We’ll learn together and search for dolphins.”

“Swimming runs in the Pavus veins. Your great-great-great-grandfather hid from the Picts by diving into a river and holding his breath. Then he crept to the riverbank at dusk and slipped into their camp-” He cleared his throat, fluffing the manuscript as he recalled the remainder of the story as his parents had instructed him in graphic detail at Julius’ age. “And… shared a nice drink with the fellows. I’m sure.”

“Ah yes, because war is all about drinking with the upper crust,” Andersson muttered darkly, eyes focused again on his journals, a slight smirk to his lips. “A nice little swim and a grand old time. Sounds a bit more like _your_ sojourn, Pavus.”

Sneaking through the dead of night to destroy his enemies. “It rather does, doesn’t it?” he said cheerfully, even as he gritted his teeth. He glanced down at Julius’ drawing. The tentacles were winding around the smiling dolphin, as though giving him a hug. No tales of gruesome death and ancient responsibility for his son. Let him have his snuggling kraken for as long as he could. “Very nice,” Dorian told him quietly, lilting into the language of his first stories and lullabies. “Remember the suction cups.”

“Oh!” Julius peered up at him with a wide grin, snuggling closer to Dorian. “Thank you, papa. Do krakens have little teeth too? Or are they big because the kraken’s big too?”

“Neither,” he touched the boy’s cheek where there was a small scuff of coal. “They have a beak. Like a bird.”

“No, they don’t,” Julius laughed brightly. “That’s silly. They would have feathers.”

“What has one to do with the other?” Dorian asked, amused. That laugh. How long had it been since he’d heard that laugh? 

“There can’t be birds in the ocean, papa,” Julius touched his charcoal to Dorian’s nose. “Unless- Can there be?”

“Everything is possible,” he told him quietly, guiding the coal back to the paper. “For you, everything you can imagine is possible. You’ve only to put your mind and will to it.”

“Okay,” he hummed, drawing a beak on his kraken and a swimming bird. “Do you think my friends can come to visit now?”

“Soon, I imagine. I shall inquire on your behalf.” Dorian tapped the swimming bird. “Penguin.”

“It’s not a penguin. What’s the other one called again?”

“Cormorant?”

“Nope. A different ‘p’ bird I think.” He sounded out the letter, not looking up from his drawing. “With the sad eyes. I forgot they can swim.”

“Petrel?”

“ _No_ ,” the boy turned to him then, pressing his hands to Dorian’s cheeks. “You forgot too.”

“Prions. Pelicans.” His hands. Sooty little hands touching everything, reaching for everything, and he wasn’t even tearing up. 

“Pelicans have big beaks but not sad eyes.”

“Plesiosaurs?”

“No!” Julius shook his head, pointing at the drawing, then tapping Dorian’s nose with the charcoal to punctuate each word. “You’re not _looking_.”

“I very well am, thank you.” Dorian moved his hand back to the page. “Try a larger one. I’m old.”

“Okay, but I need a new paper.” 

“Why don’t we use the back of this one and let your mother sleep, hm?”

“Oh,” he flipped the page over and began scribbling the head of a much larger bird. “Okay. She’s very sleepy.” He held a soot-covered finger to his lips. “Shh.”

“Indeed.” Dorian squinted at the page. “Ah. The little ones you saw when we went to visit your grandfather. Puffins.”

“Yes!” He dropped the charcoal on the floor of the train, reaching around to hug Dorian’s shoulders. “Puffins. That’s it. Does grandfather like puffins?”

Filled with buckshot, Dorian mused. “From a distance, perhaps.” He wrapped a tentative arm around Julius, holding the boy steady. Months since he’d been able to hold him without the child screaming. “What matters is that you do.”

“I do,” he yawned, turning in Dorian’s arms and settling his cheek against his chest. “Puffins are good.” Julius tilted tired eyes to peer up at Dorian. “Are you going to be too busy in the country too? I can be good; I promise.”

“You _are_ good, Julius,” he whispered into the child’s hair. “You mustn’t let anyone ever tell you differently.”

“Why don’t you come to sleep in my room like mama does?” he whined, sniffing. “I want to be good like you said so you come to visit me.”

Gods and monsters. “Listen. I’ll tell you a secret,” he whispered, glancing to where Almila slept. 

“A secret?” The boy exclaimed, eyes wide. “What is it?”

“Shh.” He lowered his lips to Julius’ ear. “You mustn’t ever tell anyone. This is just for you and I to know. Yes?”

Julius nodded somberly, extending his little finger. “I promise, papa.”

Dorian clasped the little pinky gently. “You are a wonder, Julius Marius Pavus. You are very, very good; you always will be, to me, no matter what. And I am with you, ever, even when you cannot see me. This is a special power. Very unique.” He lifted his brows. “Very secret. Do you understand?”

“How, if I don’t see you?” Julius whispered loudly, gazing up, wonder in his starlit eyes.

“This is your gift. Our gift.” He flexed his fingers, snagging a coin from the air and pressing it into Julius’ hand. “We have access to all manner of unseen things.”

“Magic?” Julius exhaled, little fingers clasping around the coin. “You’ll teach me? I want to learn.”

“You will when you’re ready.” He touched the boy’s nose gently. “Our secret.”

“Ours,” Julius nodded in agreement, snuggling up against him again, eyes closing. “Love you,” he said quietly on a yawn.

The words came so easily to him. A credit to his mother. Dorian patted his back lightly. “Thank you.”

“Mmhmm,” Julius hummed, holding the coin tightly in his fingers. “My papa.”

“My son.” Dorian brushed his thumb over the boy’s hair, hesitant to put any pressure on him that might aggravate the swelling that still plagued him. Please, he prayed silently, let this one good deed survive.

Julius’ breathing slowed and evened, exhaling little puffs of heat against his collar. Dorian listened intently. To his breaths. To the roll of the wheels along the tracks beneath them and the quiet rustle of people walking past their cabin. He stared unseeing at the manuscript the doctor had procured, gave up, and looked out the window to watch the hills roll past, green and wet with the spring rains. 

He’d tried to protect the boy from himself and even that had been a failure. Hadn’t he asked the same question when he’d been small? ‘Why don’t you visit? Why don’t you care?’ Hadn’t he tried everything to gain his parents’ attention until he’d gained that attention through the end of a whip? At least Julius had Almila. And maybe, perhaps, he would believe that he was loved.

_Weakness_. He could hear his mother’s voice like a hiss in his mind. _It is a weakness to soften yourself. A weakness to rely on anyone else. It gives our enemies openings to hurt us._ _What you feel doesn’t matter, Dorian. Our family and our duty to the Crown: that is all that need concern you._

Family and duty. 

He’d done it, hadn’t he? 

He argued in Parliament, watching his ideals be chipped away month by month and year by year. He took a beautiful wife, a brilliant partner, a dear friend, and dimmed her light day by day. He had children who wasted away hour by hour. 

Family and duty. 

Maker, he needed a drink. But the boy was sleeping sound, pillowed against him. 


	6. Hawk and griffin arrow-eyed

## Anders 

The carriage from the train station seemed to take them further and further into the middle of nowhere and the further they traveled from the city, the ever present weariness in his bones and the ache in his head slowly began to dissipate. The country air? Or something else? 

They passed little hamlets of handsome country houses, wide lawns and tall fences obscuring most of the grounds from the view of the windows. Beautiful, stately things, with trees just beginning to bud and grass that struggled against the chill to turn green again, sea breeze billowing the flags that flew from the rooftops.

He thought for certain the carriage would turn down one of the lightly cobbled roads and deposit them in front of one of the gorgeous seaside estates they passed.

But no. The horses continued on and neither of the Pavus adults seemed the least bit concerned that they were leaving civilization.

Then the hamlets filtered out completely to give way to wide stretches of open land and forests. Where in the Maker’s name were they going? A park? Did they live in tents? 

After another hour of travel, he began to realize it was no park they were crossing through. The trees were too close together in some spaces, in orderly rows, the same breeds all in a line. It had to be it. Their _land_. Acres and acres of it, orchards and forests and ponds, little cottages with sheep and cows milling about if he squinted into the distance-

He looked between Lord and Lady Pavus, trying to keep his jaw from dropping visibly. The countess had reclaimed her article on electromagnetism from her husband and was reading, her little boy blessedly asleep in her arms. Anders had given him a tonic to try and dull the pain for the final leg of the journey and it had made him terribly drowsy again, but at least he hadn’t screamed like he was in the process of being murdered. Pavus himself had been sipping from his flask since he’d had a chance to refill it.

It warmed him to see the boy in his father’s arms, smiling and chittering away like a magpie. And Pavus had softened somewhat, too, peering at the child as though he was the only thing in his world that mattered.

Dropping to his knees before him just the day before, pleading, some deep, visceral pain calling to the ghost in Anders’ bones, urging him to discover its source. 

The earl’s gaze made a pattern of shifting away from him as soon as their eyes met, once he’d sobered again. Shame? For being vulnerable? For caring about his own flesh and blood? Someone had shoved a cane so far up the man’s behind he couldn’t even tell it was there anymore. Or maybe he could. Might’ve been the problem. Or perhaps, more likely, not _enough_ canes up rear ends. Anders held back a chuckle, hiding his smile behind his hand.

The carriage finally stopped at a massive iron gate which was drawn open by a young woman in a starched, dark blue uniform; wheels crunched against gravel as they passed through rows of perfectly trimmed hedges and trees. 

How could he _still_ not see the bloody house?

He’d seen enough men like Pavus before, rich lords stuffed so full of expectations that they’d lost themselves in their family’s wishes. Some of them managed to find a bit of freedom in the walls of wine sinks and bordellos, paying people to pretend to offer them a hint of the love they so longed for. He recalled a man in his fifties who’d paid him an extra five silvers just to lie next to him and kiss him through the night. Didn’t even take his trousers off.

Poor, sad little wretches, sitting on their high perches and looking down their noses at the rest of them. He wondered how quickly he’d be out the door if Pavus found out about his past, the years before the war. The times after. About as quickly as the bloke could hoist him out a window, he imagined. ‘Low caliber’ indeed. 

And there it was, stretching out before him, a bloody _castle_. Rich, cream stone standing proudly against the horizon in front of a wide, circle drive lined with statuary and rose bushes. Arches leading off the side to a greenhouse and stables and beyond that an entire arboretum. 

Andraste’s frilly panties, the man had a godsdamned fortune. He stared blinking at the estate while the others began to stir in their seats. 

A veritable army emerged from the front doors, curving down the stair in matching uniforms of cream and blue, hands folded neatly before them as the carriage rolled to a stop. 

Almost the entirety of the staff were women, with the exception of a few spare workmen who were either large or old or both. The whale of a butler who clopped down the stairs to welcome them was one such- grizzled and red cheeked. 

“Akron!” Dorian climbed down, tucking his flask into his vest pocket. 

“My lord, it is good to see you all. We’ve prepared a small luncheon.”

“Lovely, thank you.” He narrowed his eyes, peering at the small pony being held by a booted maiden. “Excellent. That should do well enough. There, you see,” he gathered Julius carefully into his arms. “Let’s see if you can remember how to sit Mist, hm?”

Anders stared between them in horror. The boy had barely been able to walk without screeching in pain and the potion he’d given him would leave the child dizzy and addled for at least a few more hours. “I think not,” he said sharply as he stuffed his papers in his bag and stepped from the carriage. “He’s not anywhere near ready to sit a horse.”

The earl ignored him even as eyes among the staff widened. He carried the boy to the small, sleepy-eyed pony, holding the child’s gaze. 

Anders could’ve throttled him. He turned to the cab driver, scowling. “Seems my attentions aren’t needed after all. Kindly return me to the train station. I’ll not have my time wasted by fools.”

A quiet grinding noise drew his gaze back to the contraption on the horse’s saddle. Cushioned braces opened as Julius turned a gear on the pommel, listening to the earl’s quiet foreign whisper. The earl lifted him into the saddle gently, holding him steady as he wound the gear again to close the braces. 

“When you’re ready,” Pavus murmured as Akron waved the staff back inside the house. 

Julius bit his lip, wrinkling his nose, and patted the pony’s mane. She stepped forward and stopped. He patted her again, twice, and she took two steps. 

Fucking puffed up imbecile. If he’d bothered to say _something_ , anything at _all_ , Anders might not have had the child swallow tranquilizers before they disembarked. This was going to hurt him later, he just couldn’t feel it yet and then it would be Anders at his side, siphoning off his energy to keep the boy from screaming. 

“Well, that was a wasteful diversion,” he muttered, staring sharply at the back of Pavus’ perfect head. “Don’t unpack my things,” he snapped at the driver, “I’m afraid my visit is going to be shorter than expected.”

“You will cease your prattling,” the earl said without looking at him. “You’re under contract and no one here serves you.” He rested a hand on Julius’ shoulder, murmuring low again in that damned inscrutable tongue. 

“ _Contract_?” He snarled. “I didn’t sign a bloody thing. I’ll walk back if I have to. It’s evident you’re not interested in my advice and I’m not going to waste my breath giving it.”

“Akron,” Pavus nodded, and the butler moved forward to take the other side of the reins. A little trifecta retinue. The horsemistress on one side, the butler on the other, a stocky woman in a heavy frock following along behind them as the horse inched up the stairs into the house. 

The earl waited, still as a statue, smiling benignly as they slipped inside. “Your advice and your work are well regarded and received,” he said quietly. “But if you ever dare to tell my son what he is and is not capable of, I will see to it that you come to regret it. He is my heir and he is observed. I will not have him threatened. Not by anyone. My word is my bond. Consider carefully if yours has any meaning.” He nodded to the driver as Almila alighted from the carriage, and it wheeled off away from them. “If you’ll excuse me.” He bowed slightly and jogged up the stairs and into the house. Manor. Castle. 

The pompous twit.

Anders tightened his jaw, teeth grinding together as he kicked the stones beneath his feet. He wasn’t trying to tell him what he couldn’t- A few more days. A few more _weeks_. When the boy could tolerate a carriage ride without howling, then, then he’d be more than agreeable about him sitting on the little pony with its irritatingly well-engineered saddle. Maker’s tits, the man was off his rocker.

“I apologize, my lady,” Anders turned to Almila with a slight bow of his head, “but I’m simply incapable of treating a child when your husband seems jolly well determined to undermine me.” He placed his hat on his head, tucking his case under his arm. “It’s been a pleasure. I really do hope he recovers well. I imagine I’ll reach the train by tomorrow morning. Fare thee well.”

“If you’ll allow the horses a chance to rest, doctor, I’ll drive you back to the station myself.” The countess gestured gently towards the greenhouse. There was a quiet resolution in her slender form, standing before the great house. She seemed to grow stronger, brighter, with each sign that Julius was improving. “You expressed an interest in botany earlier in the week; I would show you my modest collection in the interim, if you would humor me.”

“I-“ Anders sighed, shaking his head. “Alright.” He closed his eyes, massaging his aching head. The pain had returned as soon as he’d stepped off the carriage and seen what the damned earl had intended to do. “He didn’t truly think I’d spend all week at the boy’s bedside just to-“ He caught her eyes and retreated from their gaze. “I’d like to see the greenhouse, if it’s no trouble. Thank you.”

She nodded, setting off around the side of the house. “It is one of my favorite places,” she murmured, tucking a stray curl behind her ear with a modest, tired smile. “Julius likes the herbs. There’s a bed of nepeta cataria he was particularly fond of when he was a babe. He began nesting in it as soon as he could crawl. Nothing we could do would stop him. He’s stubborn. Like his father.” 

“A tiger cub,” he smirked slightly. “I’m assuming I shouldn’t have challenged your husband in front of your staff.”

Almila glanced at him, warmth in her dark gaze. “I wouldn’t hazard to tell you what you should and should not do,” she murmured wryly. “It certainly didn’t appear to be a very practical move. Who am I to say?”

“Authority has always prickled me,” he admitted, boots crunching against the flagstones. “I spent every other weekend scrubbing latrines for insubordination when they didn’t need me in the med tent.”

She lifted one articulate brow in a nonplussed expression and opened the door to the greenhouse, waving him inside. “One assumes you enjoyed the activity, if you knew how to avoid it.”

“I was young,” he chuckled, shaking his head, “and always needed to get in the last word. The smell stops being quite so offensive when you spend most of your days treating sick soldiers.”

It was a more expansive space than it had seemed on the outside, extending the depth of the house, with a spiral stair leading to a lofted enclosure towards the rear. Humid and warm, protected from the winds from the sea, filled with the fragrance of herbs and flowers and fresh, vivid growth. Every pot and container had small labels attached in what he’d come to recognize as her neat hand. Scientific names and instructions for care, likely for whatever gardeners kept the place in order in her absence. 

“Servants talk,” she said softly, hitching her skirt up slightly to rest her small boot on a stool, unlacing it. “Among themselves and in town. It may seem silly to you, but there are reasons why it is important that he makes a show of control.” She slipped a dainty foot free with a sigh of relief and stepped into a flat, dusty, soft leather work boot, glancing back at him. “If Julius seems the worse for wear, he will change his mind, I think.”

“I hope he’s not,” Anders sighed, scrubbing a hand through his beard. “Even if it means I look like an arse.” He glanced around at the little space, carefully and lovingly maintained, immaculately clean for all of the dirt. “It’s beautiful here. Do you happen to have turmeric growing? Or any chinchona trees? I’ve had a terrible time finding them in the city. Perhaps I-” He was going to leave. He’d said as much. His expression fell. 

“I do. Three varieties of turmeric, as it happens. We’re fond of continental cuisines here. I’ll show you.” She lifted her skirts as the work boots she’d changed into left her shorter than her hems allowed, crossing past him. “And horseradishes as well.” 

“Good,” he smiled, seeing a sliver of her calves and looking away quickly. Gods, everyone in their household was dangerously gorgeous. He followed the countess to a line of plants with thick, waxy leaves. “Have you ever managed to cultivate elfroot? I tried, in the hospital’s greenhouse, but I never could get it to grow… Had an entire breeding regimen and everything.”

“Did they have equal hours of sunlight and shade?” She met his gaze curiously. “And a consistent stream of air across the leaves? That’s a key.”

“Of course,” he tilted his head with a slight grin. “My father was a florist. I think it was the soil and the water, if I’m being honest. It’s not as clean in the city as I imagine it is here.”

“If there’s adequate access to sunlight, the water shouldn’t matter. Their roots clean water, removing impurities. It’s quite fascinating, actually. Not living impurities, but mineral and chemical deposits, so far as our research has shown, in any case.” She was frowning at a spot on one of the waxy leaves, rubbing it between her fingers. “The soil, though- that could make a great deal of difference. And you can’t grow them in containers. They have to think that they’re wild.”

“You work together?” Anders’ smile widened as he watched her fuss over the plants. “An uncommon, welcome thing to see, that.”

“Oh…” She glanced up, a light flush staining her pale cheeks. “Yes. I could show you the laboratory, if it would be of interest to you. It’s been locked since we left last summer, but you might find it… curious.” She smiled slightly. “A small glimpse into what we do besides drinking and cavorting. Was that it?”

“I never accused you of such things, my lady,” he raised a brow with a small frown. “Have I been too harsh with him, do you think?”

“I don’t know,” she murmured, winding her hands together. “Perhaps he needs someone to be harsh with him. I certainly haven’t been able to break him from his habits. Not by addressing them directly. Our work helps, I think; without it, he falls apart.”

“ _Why_ , though? Is it just Julius’ illness? I could understand that driving a man to madness.” He placed a gentle hand on her shoulder. “I’m confident your son will continue to improve. Might take a bit longer if Lord Pavus insists upon vigorous activity for the boy.”

She gazed up at him with eyes like ponds reflecting the night sky. “My son improves with your care, Doctor Andersson. To see him smile again. To hear him laugh. I’d quite thought I would never experience these things again, yet in these last days…” She sniffled, a tremulous smile curving her lips. “He is blooming again, my beautiful boy.” She dashed her fingers across her cheek, shaking her head. “I apologize. This time you’ve given us is such an unexpected gift.” She straightened, blinking back tears, the dew from which clung to her lashes like tiny diamonds. “Let me show you where we grow the elfroot, that you might be able to recreate our method for yourself.”

“My lady,” he murmured, drawing a handkerchief from his pocket and holding it out to her. “You shouldn’t ever apologize for being happy.” He exhaled slowly, closing his eyes. “I can’t leave Julius until he’s fully recovered. It’d be-” Anders felt a pleased shiver run through his spine. “I’m sorry for saying I would.”

“You aren’t the first person he’s badgered into saying something they regret,” she admitted ruefully, dabbing at her eyes with his kerchief. “I’m certain you won’t be the last.” She folded and unfolded the cloth, turning it in her hands. “May I tell you a story that was told to me?”

“If it would please you,” he said, as gently as he could manage. “You can tell me anything you wish.”

“Shortly after I had Julius, I had a visitor who came to give me some advice on how to raise my son.” The countess brushed her fingers over the tattered edge of his handkerchief. “She told me that, when her son was a little older than Julius is now, he was thrown from his horse and broke his leg in five places. They gave him a week in bed before they put a splint to him and set him to the task of drawing water from the garden well for the cooks each morning.”

“ _Why_?” Anders stared at her, horrified. “That’s madness, you realize? He could have been permanently disfigured by that sort of negligence! If the bone didn’t set properly-”

“She told me that it was imperative that he overcome the matter, as she called it. That it taught him to manifest his will. Build his strength.”

“‘Manifest his will’ my arse.” It was bloody mistreatment, that’s what it was.

“And that children needed to learn to shoulder the consequences of their failures. Sooner rather than later.” 

“Children stumble,” he whispered, mortified. “They experiment. They should be allowed to be bloody _children_ , for the Maker’s sake.”

“I agree with you. She was quite cross with me for saying so. Has been ever since.” She offered the kerchief back to him. “I can fix that hem for you, if you’d like.”

“I can-” Anders flashed her a small, self-deprecating smile. “I’m a surgeon, remember? I spent a good amount of time practicing with cloth. I just- Have other priorities, usually.”

“Fortunately for you, I have some time on my hands.” She tucked her head to the side, “I would appreciate a task that lets me remain at his side.”

“If it would make you happy, I won’t keep you from it.” 

“Thank you,” she said softly, though the way she said it seemed to have more meaning than the handkerchief. 

“Far be it from me to deny anything to such a brilliant and lovely woman,” Anders lifted his brows, ducking his head in a slight bow. 

She blinked, her smile blooming like rose petals as she met his gaze. “Would you mind keeping me company, doctor?” the countess asked, tucking his kerchief into the small pouch at her waist. “You should know where things are about the estate, for your work, and I need to make the rounds.”

“If you don’t mind.” He pressed his lips together. “I’d like to apologize to your husband as well, if we happen upon him.”

“Brave man,” she chuckled admiringly. “Give me a moment to change and we’ll be off.”

“Take all the time you need,” he hummed, stopping for a moment longer to admire the space she’d made her own. “I’m at my leisure until your son needs me again.”

She nodded. “There should be spare mud boots,” she pointed to a small chest as she crossed the room, opening a metal wardrobe and gathering a couple stacks of cloth. “If you’re of a mind to preserve your footwear. The elfroot patch tends to be mucky.” She ducked through a slatted door. 

“Preserve _my_ footwear?” He laughed aloud, eyeing the ‘mud boots’ that looked newer than his own. “I’ve had these for almost ten years. Something around that, anyway.”

“I never would have guessed,” she answered through the door. 

“Hmph,” he rolled his eyes, “I don’t believe that for a moment.”

“The new suit suits you.” There was a sound of rustling cloth followed by a low sigh. “That’s better.”

“What’s-“ He turned to face the little changing room as the countess emerged in fitted fawn colored breeches and a laced tunic rolled up to her elbows, a short patterned vest cinched tight around her middle. She’d wrapped waxed cloth over her little work boots and around her calves, cinching them at the ankles and knees. 

“Much easier to breathe.” She belted a series of pouches around her waist. “Ready? It’s a bit of a walk.”

“You look stunning,” he exhaled, wide-eyed and blinking. Easier to breathe? For her, perhaps. 

Her smile widened again, her cheeks darkening as she lowered her gaze. “Oh.” She smoothed her hands over her sides. “You’re very kind.”

Anders cleared his throat, coughing into his fist, before turning his cheek from her to stop from staring. “Um… Yes. Ready.”

He could have sworn he heard a little bell song of a laugh escape her as she stepped ahead of him, leading the way from the greenhouse towards the rear of the estate. “Country rules,” she explained, drawing a pair of rough gloves from one of her pouches. “I hope you don’t think we’re terribly backwards.”

“Oh yes, so very much so,” he chuckled, rolling his eyes, trailing after her like a duckling. “Women wearing pants and doing research? What’s next, asking for the right to vote? Sitting in Parliament? Things might _actually_ get done! Couldn’t have that, could we?”

“I don’t think I would want to sit Parliament,” she shook her head. “Not given the headaches he comes home with. We’ve spent months drafting bills only to see them winnowed down to bylines. I like my work as it is. And seeing what others come up with as a result of it. It feels useful.”

“Of course it’s useful,” Anders ran his hand along a rosemary bush, lifting his fingers to his nose. “Even failed experiments are useful. Do you primarily restrict your own studies to botany and zoology?”

“No.” She glanced back at him with a sly curve of a smile. “But those are the ones he’s published for me.” The grass beneath their feet grew spongy, smelling strongly of peat as they progressed into a shaded copse. “I learn what’s of interest to me and follow the threads until they peter out. Restricting myself to one field of study would restrict what I might learn.”

“Fabulous,” he laughed, studying her profile, sharp cheekbones and a dainty nose under those warm eyes that reminded him of the melted chocolate his mother used to spoon into his milk when he was small. “Next time we’re in the city, I could sneak you into an operating theatre, if you’ve an interest. Could pencil in a fake mustache and everything.”

He could see where Julius had inherited his wide-eyed wonder. Her lips parted, hands clasped over her heart. “Oh, that would be wonderful. I am so curious. There are experiments we’ve done with elk and boar that I would love to see replicated in-“ She flushed, ducking her head. “Of course, there’s no need for a penciled mustache. I’ve a false one. Dorian made it for me, to help me sneak into lectures.” 

“He-“ Anders beamed, shaking his head as he laughed. “Of course you’ve a fake mustache. That’s wonderful. He must- You must be great friends, the two of you.”

Almila tilted her head. “What an odd thing to say.” She stepped into the center of a circle of trees. “I suppose we are. Or were. Or- I shouldn’t speak about it.” She tucked a curl behind her ear. “You’re far too easy to talk to.”

“I’m sorry.” When had he ever been told that before? Pain in the arse, he’d been called that plenty of times. “It’s pleasant to have someone to speak to. Usually most of the people I pass time with are howling or unconscious. I’m not used to it, as has probably already become terribly apparent.”

“That’s alright,” she murmured. “I’ve fallen out of practice as well, these last months. We can improve together, perhaps.”

“I hope so.” Anders joined her among the trees in the little clearing, looking at their perfect patches of elfroot, growing freely as though they were in the wild. “Maker knows I could use the help if I’m going to continue sleeping in a castle. Perhaps you should put me up in the barn instead and I can keep to my habits.”

“The nearest barn is too far from the main house for you to be of use.” She knelt beside a patch, lifting the leaves for his inspection. “See? They’re separated by variety, but keep neatly to their space because of the light dispersal through the leaves.”

“Clever,” he smiled, peering at an adjacent plant. “The greenhouse on the hospital is on the north side of the building; I’m not sure the poor things will ever get enough sunlight to grow. But _this_ is brilliant. I should have plenty of reagents for potion making. Maybe even a bit of experimentation of my own.”

“The sunlight…” She tucked her tongue between her teeth, peering up at him. “Have you tried manufacturing it?”

“Manufacturing it?” He tilted his head to the side, scrubbing a hand through his short scruff. “No, I can’t say I have. How do you suggest I go about doing such a thing?”

She smiled, the pleasure in the expression melting her gaze. “Let me show you something wondrous.” She rose, dusting her knees off. “Our own little sun.”

She led him across the grounds, practically skipping, towards a large, shuttered outbuilding, the doors locked with a series of chains and heavy locks. She roused a key ring from a pouch and unlocked the heavy latches one by one, drawing the door open to a wide dark space. “Here. Follow close,” she took his hand, leading him into the darkened interior and shutting the door behind them to leave him blind. 

Delicate fingers, but calloused from work and writing. Beautiful and excited and radiant, warming everything she came near. _She_ was the sun in that household. Couldn’t she see it? He squeezed her fingers, following her closely through the darkness. “Following,” he whispered, trying to slow the stuttering of his heart. “The sun is darker than I imagined.”

Her laugh sparkled in the black. “Just a little further… Here.” She wrapped his hand around a handle. “Wind this. It will take a minute or two.”

Anders hesitated. The lack of light could hide the bright flush he was sure had rushed to his cheeks. But she was cheerful and there was a speck of dirt on her cheek that he could just barely see in the dark. He turned the crank, listening to a mechanical whir, gears humming around them as he turned and turned and turned, becoming more skeptical as time passed.

It happened slowly, light gathering like mist across the ceiling, shimmering when it touched crystal globes that caught it, strengthened it, sent it ricocheting to another globe and then another until the room was full of warm, radiant light, prismatic, colors darting across walls, thrown between different sized bulbs and balls that hung around the space. 

“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” she beamed, staring up into the colors, awash in them, arms out as if she could catch them and embrace them. 

“Maker’s breath,” he whispered, turning in a slow circle around the room. “You _made_ this? This? It’s- Gods, it’s phenomenal. I don’t even-“ Anders felt his hands lift to touch his smile, laughing like a child. “Yes. Stunning.” Like you are, he wanted to say, watching the light shine on her in a myriad of colors, catching on her skin and making it glitter. “It’s wonderful. Brilliant- uh, literally _brilliant_.”

“Not me.” She laughed, cupping her hand to catch the light. “Him. He started it when Julius was born. It’s wonderful.” 

“It is,” he sighed, smiling. “He- He built it by himself?”

“Mostly,” Almila flexed her fingers in the colors. “Some of the more intricate glassblowing we sent to an artisan in Wales.” 

“How could he-“ Anders frowned, examining one of the larger sculptures, glowing brightly, swirling spires coming off a center sphere. “It’s gorgeous. It’s hard to imagine someone so… He just doesn’t seem the type to build-“ He shook his head, dropping his gaze. “I’m sorry. That was untoward.”

Her boots shifted into his field of view. Toe to heel. Toe to heel. “You’ve caught us both at quite a terrible time. If you could watch him when he’s working, when he’s here, away from all crises in the city and he’s happy… He’s capable of the most marvelous things. It’s hard to see sometimes. That’s all.”

“I hope I can catch a glimpse of what you’ve seen,” he said softly, lifting his chin to meet her gaze. They had a sick child. And Lady Pavus had agreed, his work in the city was grueling and disappointing. _And_ earlier, on the train, when he thought Anders wasn’t watching, the man peered at his son like he was the most beautiful gift in the world. Had begged for Anders to stay to care for him. “I should apologize now, I think, and take my lashing. Perhaps it’ll improve the fellow’s spirits.”

She smiled gently, tucking her fingers into her pockets. “You’re a kind and thoroughly decent man, Doctor Andersson.”

“I’m trying,” he raised a brow, stepping towards her as the lights began to wink out again. “Could you guide me out of here? I’d rather not add breaking precious glassware to my list of sins.”

Almila held out her hand. “I don’t think you’ve sinned, Doctor. Or if you have, we all have our moments of pride.” She looked up as the room dimmed. “It acts like sunlight. The plants think so, anyway. Mint, rosemary, basil, and elfroot, as of last summer.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” he murmured, resting his fingers gingerly atop of hers. “It’s Anders. To my friends. If you wish.”

“Anders, then,” she answered as the room went dark around them. “I’m Almila.” She chuckled, leading him through the inky black. “When I can be a friend and not a countess.”

“How often is that?”

“Out here?” she guided him around the center of the space. It felt like swimming in the ocean, the way they moved through the pitch. “More often than not.” 

“Good,” he hummed, tightening his grip on her hand as he nearly tripped over some sort of cable. “It suits you, I think. I hope it suits Julius, too.”

“May the Maker please let that be so,” she breathed, pressing the door open onto the late afternoon. “He loves it here. The herbs and the maze, especially. Last summer, he nearly swallowed seven seashells. He’s outgrown the phase of putting everything in his mouth, I think.”

“He was drawing puffins earlier. Smart little fellow.” Anders blinked in the sunshine. “Takes after his parents, I imagine.”

“You’re too kind.” She was angles and curves, shading her face with her free hand, her fingers lingering - perhaps forgotten - beneath his. “He is quite the artist. I thought I might never see him playing in his charcoal again. It’s always been a comfort to him.”

He let her hand go reluctantly as they crossed the grounds. Anders knew well enough that even such an innocent gesture would never be acceptable should they be spotted. He wondered why he’d suddenly begun to care. “Julius will be whomever he wishes to be, I’m certain of that. Artist, explorer, spelunker…” He turned to her as they crossed back to the little stone pathway that wound through the garden. “You’ll get to see it, one day, and I’m sure it’ll be just as dazzling as the display your lord husband built when he was a babe.”

“I dearly hope so.” Almila smiled, glancing at him then away. “Ah. Screw your courage to the sticking place.” 

He followed her gaze towards the rise of the closest hill and watched as a stallion rushed across it in the light of the setting sun carrying the earl. The man bent low over the neck of his mount, throwing sod in a flurry as he bore down on them. 

Anders peeled his hat from his head, crossing his arms at his back and dipping his chin in a show of deference and what he hoped passed for sincerity. “My lord,” he called out, when the horse closed the distance between them, eyes still downcast. “I wished to beg your forgiveness for my earlier conduct.”

Pavus peered down his perfectly aquiline nose, swinging out of the saddle. No one should have been allowed to actually look like that, sculpted and bronzed, poured into pantaloons and jackboots and a long vest. “Earlier… ah, yes.” He smiled tightly. “You missed the most delightful display. He was laughing, riding down the hall of portraits and then fell asleep in the saddle. I settled him into bed and left him with the nurse.”

“Good,” Anders breathed, sighing in relief, his shoulders unraveling with the news. When the man had come barreling towards them, he’d feared the worse. “Maker’s tears, I’m glad he’s well. I-“ He flexed his fingers behind his back. “I’m sorry, truly. I only feared- I didn’t mean to- I don’t wish to fight with you about his treatment. It would’ve been helpful- would _be_ helpful-“ He shook his head. How was he supposed to _speak_ to the man when he looked like a sun-soaked god? “I would like to know what you mean to have him do, if possible. I could’ve- Gods, I wouldn’t have given him such a strong sedative had I known- Please. _Please_ just try to tell me, so I can help, in whatever way I can. So I don’t feel obligated to- I’m sorry. I am.”

“You are,” Pavus mused. “Curious.”

Almila cleared her throat meaningfully. 

“What?” 

She lifted her brow.

The earl sniffed. “I should think it’s entirely obvious what I mean to do. I mean to see him come through this intact. He needs autonomy. He can’t very well sit about waiting for someone to carry him hither and yon, when the entire process of lifting and moving him causes him so much trouble. The pony will keep a restrained pace and allow him to move with moderate freedom.”

“The saddle was clever,” Anders lifted his chin to meet the earl’s gaze. “Though, I worry the movement will aggravate the swelling in his hips, legs, and feet. _And_ I was working under the assumption he was going to be _bedridden_ , not climbing up staircases atop a horse. I would’ve adjusted his medication if I’d known.”

“ _You_ would have abandoned him,” Dorian sneered. “ _Twice_. Your medical expertise and similar talents are appreciated, but I will not come scurrying to someone so flighty for every bloody thing. Nor will I allow you to hold me hostage in my own house.”

“Hostage,” Anders repeated, pressing his lips together in a thin line. “I simply do not wish to see a child’s health sacrificed for the sake of your _pride_.”

“So you would see it sacrificed for the sake of your own.” Pavus narrowed his eyes. “You said that you could bring him through this disease. If that is the case, there is an entire lifetime he will need to survive in its aftermath. I cannot fix this now, but I can bloody well preserve the latter.”

“I spoke in anger,” Anders admitted, grinding his teeth together to keep from lashing out at the man, “and ignorance. Though I do wonder why you would consign your son to performing the same role that seems to have grated your own soul down to nothing. Is it not enough for him to have his life and health?”

The expressions that moved swiftly across his face were as the changing seasons- blistering summer that darted behind the ice of midwinter. “The next time that you turn your back on him, I will know what you are.” He turned, hauling himself back into the saddle. “There’s an issue with the cattle at the southern line,” he clipped, looking to his wife. “I’ll return once it’s been dealt with.”

She nodded once, opening her mouth to speak, but he’d already wheeled off to go galloping across the grounds from them. Almila watched him ride until he disappeared into the trees, then turned to Anders with a tired, furrowed brow. “I’m afraid I don’t have any latrines.”

“That went about as poorly as it could’ve,” he scuffed his boot against the dirt. “I’m sorry. I should check in on Julius, I imagine, to make sure he’s sleeping well.”

“I’ll show you the way. Have you considered,” she murmured as she began the trek back towards the high white towers, “counting to ten?”

“And miss the opportunity to ingratiate myself further with your dear husband?” He sighed, setting his hat back on his head. “Perhaps I should.”

“Like bulls with their horns tangled,” she mused under her breath. 

“And there’s a hopelessly sick part of me that enjoys it.” Anders exhaled, shaking his head. “The world would be much better run by women; I’m quite convinced.”

“We have an excellent Queen. That’s a start.” She tilted her head back, a little quirk of a smile at her lips, “We could pretend, I suppose, that it is, as an experiment.”

“An experiment, my-“ he corrected himself silently, wanting to weep at the shine in her hair from the setting sun, the curl of her lips, the sharpness of her mind- “Almila. Yes. Long may she reign.”


	7. Cool leaves round the brim

##  Anders 

The following months passed in a blissful sort of torture. Hands hovering over Julius, feeling his aches and pains subside with each day, jotting down the details of his condition, effects of his medications, the times he spent awake, talking, drawing, and - after the fourth week-  _ walking _ . He’d designed orthotics for his ankles and shoes for the boy to wear, providing needed compression and support, and each morning he returned to Julius’ side, he found new variants beside the bed, as though they’d been provided by elves in the night. 

Anders scarcely saw the man responsible and it was almost always at a distance, racing through the countryside atop his horse or returning mist-damp from a stroll through the moors, or running back to London to attend sessions of Parliament, but he was almost certain the fellow painstakingly poured over the notes Anders collected through the day; if he looked carefully, little ink smudges in the corners of his notebook and tiny modifications to the schematics he sketched would become evident after each evening.

Almila, on the other hand, was a constant, lovely presence. She sat by Julius’ side, distracting him with stories and songs while Anders examined him, feeling his heartbeat, looking for damage to his muscles and nerves, swelling in his joints, pain in his hands. Sewing and weaving bandages and gauze while Anders recovered his strength in the rocking chair in the corner of the room, her lilting voice mingling with Julius’ laughter, filling him to his toes with warmth. 

It was almost possible to forget the earl had anything to do with the little boy. He had Almila’s eyes, her smile, her laughter, her bright and brilliant curiously, her excitement about anything and everything-

He had Pavus’ hair and his unerring assumption that he was always right. Anders could already see the father’s stubbornness in the boy and he wondered if he wasn’t himself helping to raise another ungrateful boor like the earl. But there was a tenderness in Julius that was absent in his elder’s disposition. He loved his mother, kissing her and hugging her and reaching for her at every opportunity. He even had begun to give Anders hugs, which nearly brought tears to his eyes the first time he’d done it, after they’d spent the afternoon drawing a gaggle of kittens across sheets and sheets of parchment, coal staining their fingers and the new suit Anders had been given.

It seemed Lady Pavus’ only source of affection was from the child that so took after her. Day after day, hour after hour, she accompanied Anders, tending to the garden, taking her meals, chattering about anything and everything- Her sprawling knowledge made him feel like a bit of a rube, his own education largely confined to the practicalities of medicine. But Almila could wax poetic about astronomy, geology, physics, and history, all over the same cup of tea. She was a force, beautiful and neglected, an orchid left to care for herself and doing a damned impressive job of it.

Pavus didn’t deserve her. Anders didn’t either, of course, but he hadn’t tried to saddle the poor woman with marriage. He was more than content to admire her with no expectations of reciprocation or-

But the expression on her face when he returned from his weekly trips into the city made his heart stutter and race. 

He didn’t,  _ couldn’t _ deserve a woman like Almila, but he could certainly make her feel appreciated, as she should always have been.

Anders exhaled, a slight smile curling his lips as he watched Almila sketching out more sea creatures with her son in the little table in the corner of the room, her shapely legs splaying out to the side in her beige trousers while Anders scrawled out his notes for the day.

Maker’s tears, the boy was actually laughing, his tears becoming few and far between. He wanted to cry in relief as Julius grew in strength. At the way it brightened Almila’s disposition. Every day, warmer and warmer, filling the room with sunshine and cheer.

“And what’s this one?”

“It’s a whale!” he giggled.

“And how can you tell?”

“Because it’s blowing its nose and it’s big!”

She kissed the top of his head fondly, beaming. “Which of the others blow their noses?”

“The porpoise! And the dolphin!”

“Very good, what-“

“Papa says we don’t have to bring fish to the dolphins when we see them, but what if they’re hungry and they won’t come out?”

“I’m sure you’ll have plenty of chances to see them by the end of the summer,” Anders hummed, not looking up from his papers. Such a sweet little thing, wanting to see the world. He would too, Anders supposed, if he’d been stuck to his bed for months.

“But I want to see them this weekend!” Julius chirped, wrinkling his nose at his mother. “I’m a good boy and my legs don’t hurt anymore and Papa promised-“

He set aside his notebook, peering at the boy. “What did your father promise you?”

“That we’d go to the seaside the day after tomorrow and look for dolphins and seashells!” Julius clapped his hands together in delight, squealing as he hugged the stuffed dragon on his lap. “I’m going on a trip with Papa and he’s going to teach me to swim, I know it!”

Anders’ expression fell. It wasn’t a coincidence that Pavus intended to take Julius away while Anders was seeing to his clients in the city. Julius was better, but- “Did you know about this, Mila?”

She smoothed her hand over Julius’ head. “Not specifically,” she glanced across the room to Anders. “You disagree, I wager?”

“I don’t-“ he exhaled sharply. “I’d love for him to go. I think he’d do well, after a few more weeks here. He could take him to the lake, test his strength, where I’d be close at hand in case- Why can’t he-“ Anders wanted to scream. Weeks of improvement, Pavus was willing to risk to take the boy a day’s ride away. Where Anders wouldn’t be able to protect him should he fall or just grow weary and sore from travel. Without even asking what he thought, after spending hours by his bedside, carefully nursing him back to health. He couldn’t say such things in front of Julius, though. Anders stood, setting his quill and notebook aside on the bedside table. “I’ll be but a moment,” he grumbled, brushing off his slacks.

“Anders,” she lifted her brows. “Ten, remember? Your Queen insists.”

A shiver of warmth trickled down his spine like melted honey every time she said his name. He crossed to the door frame, eyes lingering on her for just a moment. “For you and Her Highness, I’ll try my very best.”

It took him over an hour to locate the man, which shouldn’t have been surprising. He never seemed to truly be anywhere. Since they’d arrived at the estate, Anders had only caught glimpses of him, coming or going or traversing the grounds in the distance. He left evidence behind: his notes, his little engineering projects, and the tales of his son that seemed to prove that he was, in fact, in the manor for periods of time. 

Still, every time he was sent from one corner of the manor to another by well-meaning servants, Anders felt his ire grow a little more. It was a waste of his time. And the man’s flagrant disregard for Anders’ advice was a waste of all of their time and a threat to the child he claimed to care about. He spotted the earl by chance through a window, riding towards one of the small copses of trees Almila had shown Anders. One of their various experiments. 

He threw his old, threadbare cloak around his shoulders and raced off for the little stable near the house, claiming the gentle mare he’d used on short rides with the countess, throwing on a bridle and mounting up without a saddle so as not to miss his quarry. Bloody frustrating fool of a man.

He rode through the grounds, following after the spectre, over the rolling rises and waving heather, trying not to fall and break his damned neck. Too long since he’d ridden, old sores long gone. But Seaspray wasn’t a fast horse any longer either and he made it to the ring of trees, the reins of Pavus’ own mount hitched to a small post in a ring of grass. A short walk later, he found the lout balanced on a stool, hanging glass bulbs from the trees above the mushroom hollow. 

The earl glanced back at Anders as he cracked a twig beneath his boot. “Harvesting again? Weren’t you here only a few days ago?” He mumbled the words around a small ceramic grip ending in a scrap of lead, a flock of notes sticking out of his pocket vest like feathers.

“That isn’t why I’m here,” Anders said quietly. How had he even noticed? Pavus had been nowhere near that day, as far as he could tell. Deep breaths. Composure and calm. He’d promised as much. “I wished to speak with you, my lord.” He remembered the deferential after just a short pause. “May I?”

“It seems to me that you are already.” He hitched his heel against the trunk of the tree, leaning back to study the glass bulb. “Well?”

“I heard you intend to travel north, to the shore with Julius this weekend.” In and out, the rise and fall of his chest, ground steady under his feet. “I had rather hoped you would’ve told me before executing such plans.”

“If it had aught to do with your schedule, I might have.” Pavus plucked a paper from his pocket and made a note. “But as it does not, I do not see why it should affect you one way or the other.”

“It affects  _ Julius _ , and he is my patient,” Anders tried to keep his voice steady, pressing the tips of his fingers to his thumb one after the other. “A few more weeks of steady recovery and I’d have gladly helped you prepare for the journey, if you’d told me of your intentions.”

“What exactly do you imagine I plan to do to the boy? Fling him off a cliff?” Pavus tucked his note into his pocket, climbing down from the stool. “Don’t answer that. You probably do.”

“I don’t,” Anders frowned. It was subtle, but the earl stepped more gingerly with one foot than the other. “I think…” What  _ did _ he think? “You’ve been building him instruments and implements to help him move about easier. That doesn’t seem like a man inclined to murder.”

“Do tell the wife, won’t you? She’ll be much relieved.” Pavus smirked, the expression tight, collecting the crystal topped cane from where it leaned. “The boy wants to see the dolphins and he jolly well will. That’s the end of it.”

“He will,” Anders agreed, doing his damndest to bite his tongue. How dare he snipe at her when she doted on him, longed for him,  _ loved _ him- But it wasn’t about them. Julius.  _ Julius _ mattered, not him, not Almila, and certainly not the earl. “Is there any chance at all I can convince you to postpone? A few more weeks, maybe a month, that’s all I ask. Take him to the lake; swimming would probably be easier on his joints than walking anyway. I’ll study his body’s reaction to the exercise and we can plan for a longer trip when we’re confident it won’t hinder his recovery.” He peered at the earl, studying his expression. “Please.”

“I  _ have _ taken him to the lake,” Pavus narrowed his eyes. “And, as he would no doubt tell you, there are no  _ dolphins _ in the lake. I have attempted to convince him otherwise, but the troublesome little blighter sees through me. Apparently fish cannot begin to pretend to be baby dolphins.”

“When did you take him?” Anders frowned, blinking. How had he not known? Why did everyone seem so keen on keeping his patient’s activities from him?

“I take him in the evenings when you lot are finished meddling with him.” He was definitely limping. Just barely, but it was there. Pavus hitched the stool onto the back of the saddle and strapped it in place. “Only to wade and fish. Don’t give yourself a fit.”

“Why am I  _ here _ , Pavus?” Anders scrubbed a hand through his hair, grimacing as he heard his voice go sharp. He exhaled, closing his eyes, trying to even the pitch. “You clearly don’t wish to cooperate with my treatments. I’m trying, by the gods, but I need to know what he’s up to or all of my observations are worthless. You’re a man of science; I thought you’d at least understand the value of information.”

“I understand that everything I’ve asked of you, you’ve told me: later, later, later, or no.” Pavus lifted his chin. “He’s my son. I will see him. Hells bells, I was  _ ordered _ to spend time with him. He’s improving, you said so yourself; I’ve read your notes. If it seemed to be causing him ill effects to wiggle a bit of string in water, I would have stopped. I’m not an imbecile.”

Why, why,  _ why _ was the man so difficult? “I didn’t ask you not to see him. He asks for you. I just-“ He stepped towards the man, hands crossed at his back. One, two, three. “Is it so difficult to tell me you’ve been taking him fishing and he’s done well so far? Why can we not work together to see him fully recovered?”

“We  _ are _ .” The earl crossed his arms, “In a manner that does not require I bow and scrape for every bloody morsel.”

“You’re not  _ speaking _ with me.”

“I very well am, unless you only write your notes and never look back at them.” He lifted his dark-winged brows. “In which case, I don’t think there’s much point in keeping them to begin with.”

“You’re the most frustrating man I’ve ever met, I think.” Anders stared into those damned silver eyes, tightening his jaw. “It’s a talent. You should be proud.”

“I am. Thank you.” The wicked smirk that curved his lips was indecently smug. “Do I have your permission, Doctor Andersson, to treat my offspring to something that would please him? Or must I be forced to ask your forgiveness next week?”

“You’re not going to be swayed, are you?” Anders closed his eyes, shaking his head. “Then I must humbly request to attend him during the sojourn. I suppose my other patients will need to tend to themselves in my absence.”

A delighted puff of amusement escaped the man and his eyes glinted with it. “In that case, I shall delay our travel until you return.” Pavus climbed into his saddle. “See that. I am exceedingly reasonable as well. Add that to my list of talents.”

“You give your word that you don’t intend to embark as soon as my train leaves the station?” Anders quirked a brow warily. The damned fool had no right to look so fetching, pleased and self-assured and blasted  _ pompous _ . “Forgive me for my suspicion, but as you said yourself, you’re no imbecile.”

“No, indeed. Quite the opposite. We’ll add brilliant to the ledger. Goodness, the list keeps growing. I shall run out of ink.” The stallion shifted beneath him. “Julius has quite a list as well, subtlety and deception not chief among them. I imagine I should get found out rather quickly if I were to sneak him away, and as I have a marginally less vested interest in his well being than your own, I suppose you shall simply have to take my word.”

“Cheeky bugger,” Anders muttered under his breath, rolling his eyes. “As you will, my lord. I serve at your leisure.”

“Is that what you do?” Pavus eyed him from atop the steed. “Could I get that in writing? Or are you still averse to contractual bondage?”

“Contractual bondage I’ve got my objections over, certainly.” Anders raised a brow with a slim, sly smile. “However, I’ve been told I’m quite fetching in leather, with a crop at my hip.”

The earl blinked slowly. “A huntsman? You should have mentioned. There are stag that need culling in the north. I’ve been meaning to get to them.”

“Culling, you said?” He batted his lashes at Pavus, grin widening. “Far from my first time resolving such problems.”

“Excellent, then we can stalk once we return from the seaside. The countess is quite fond of venison.” He nodded once, sharply. “I imagine your skills as a surgeon come in handy dressing them down. That’s always been my least favorite part.”

“Oh? One would think with your obsession with fashion, it'd be your favorite.”

“I do not-“ Pavus’ jaw tightened. “It is not ‘obsession’ to clothe oneself according to station and setting. Speaking of which, it would please me greatly if you would take yourself to my tailor in London and have one or two more suits made. You’ll wear the elbows off this one if you continue to use it every day.”

“I have twelve silvers to my name, Lord Pavus,” Anders tilted his head to the side. “And I’m not intending to spend them on new suits to spare you an eyesore.”

“That’s why I said my tailor. He’ll send me the bill. Consider it part of your wages.” Pavus sniffed. “As a physician, you owe it to me to spare me both eyesores and headaches.”

“Would you be terribly offended if I asked for something a bit less…” Anders looked down at the layers of interlaced fabric, connected absurdly by an infinite number of buckles and straps. “Flashy?”

“You need a bit of flash. And boots. And a haircut. And a shave.” The earl frowned at the pommel of his saddle. “What would people say if they knew I was keeping you in my employ in your condition? I ask you. Besides.” A ghost of a smile crossed his lips. “The countess likes a vest. And color.”

“I  _ like _ my beard, thank you very much,” he squinted at the earl, frowning. “And I hardly imagine the countess cares what I wear.”

“No? She’s the one who has to look at you day in and day out.”

“More’s the pity for her. I’m not shaving or letting any of your people come near me with a pair of scissors.”

“You’re aware that hair grows back, are you not?”

“I’ve not had hair shorter than my chin since I was ten.” Anders narrowed his eyes at the man, smiling slightly through his irritation. “I’m not interested in gadding about looking like a puffed up aristocrat. Then people will begin to expect things of me and I can’t have that.”

“People will expect things of you anyway. They always do.” Pavus lifted his chin, gazing down at him steadily. “Considering your opinion of puffed up aristocrats, you might even say they’ll expect less of you if you bother to shine your boots once a month.”

“You’re so concerned with my appearance, I’m beginning to wonder if you don’t secretly enjoy the view.”

The curious silver gaze shuttered and flicked away, then he snapped the reins and drove the stallion from the clearing. He heard the hoof beats clatter away and through the trees, then heard them roaring back. For a moment it seemed as though the earl might well drive the stallion right over him, but he dismounted, stalking forward, gripping his cane. “Who do you work for?”

“What?” Anders’ heart was pounding so loudly he thought the organ was going to explode. “I work for you, I thought.”

“Who sent you? Who was it?” He narrowed his eyes, breathing hard. “Spit it out.”

“A mutual friend works for your father-in-law and asked that I might tend to your son.” Anders stepped back.

“To spy on my son. To spy on all of us,” he hissed. “Who. Sent. You. You can tell me or I can wring it out of you.”

“I was just-“ Anders stared at him wide-eyed. “I’m not a spy! I just-“

“Slander,” he snapped, his cheeks growing pale, sneering like a wolf. The cane whistled through the air at his side. “I won’t have it. You can pry and imply as much as you like, you won’t send me to Hanwell. Do you hear me? As a courtesy for the work you’ve done for my son, I’ll give you one more chance. Tell me. Tell me who it was.”

“What  _ slander _ are you speaking of?” Anders blinked slowly, shivering under that gaze. “That I think you’re handsome? How is that libelous?”

The cane whistled again, whipping over the back of Pavus’ hand. “Do you think that you’re the first test she’s sent? Is that it? What did she promise you, hm? Wealth? Peerage? Is that why you’re so noisy about our class?”

“She? Who-“ Anders scrambled backwards, but was stopped by rough bark scratching through the silk of his suit. His limp. The boy who fell from his horse and was forced to rise before he was ready. His mother. His bloody  _ mother _ ? “Please, I wasn’t sent to spy on you. I wasn’t-“ He felt the spirit humming in his bones, awakening. “Please, don’t-“ Anders stared at Pavus, horror struck, a familiar buzz rising in his blood. Hollow. His voice was hollowing, tears rising to his eyes. “I don’t want to hurt you. Please believe me.”

“As if you could,” the earl snapped. “What did she offer you? What could she offer you that you would take advantage of a fucking child?”

“I don’t know who you’re  _ talking _ about. I came here to heal Julius. He is the only reason I’m here.” His voice became two-toned and celestial, but he tried to breathe through it, keep the monster at bay for as long as possible. His hands began to glow blue. “I swear to you, I mean your family no harm. Is it so hard to imagine- Gods, you must be the most irritating person in the world, but-“ The glow dissipated as he fought off the spirit, dropping to his knees in the dirt, eyes burning. “You’re beautiful and hurting and something in you calls to me and I damn well don’t know why. So kill me, if you’d like, right here. I haven’t been alive for twenty years; there’s nothing left you can take away.”

The crystal was unexpectedly warm when it touched his head, lights blazing, blinding. Colors like the ones in the workshop flashed and churned. For a moment he could taste the leaves of the trees, feel the grit of the soil on his tongue, then the light receded in a rush. The afternoon light seemed darker by comparison. “Justice.  _ Really _ . Ironic and curious.”

“He can sense your pain. He doesn’t tell me what it is, but I can feel it when I look at you. An ache in my marrow.” Anders looked up at him, hands shaking. “Because of this?”

“It doesn’t tell you, but it knows. It’s clever, this one.” The world around them was dim as dusk, shimmering on the edges. Pavus’ eyes seemed luminescent as moonlight. “Too clever to be convinced to do her bidding for anything simple.”

“I don’t serve anyone but myself. Myself and Justice.” Anders bowed his head. “I don’t think he’d much like to work for whoever you think sent me. He gets testy about things like taking advantage of children. So do I, but men are more changeable than spirits, I’ve been told.”

“They are.” The light rushed back, the world regaining clarity in a blink as he lifted his cane away. “Well. This is embarrassing.” He frowned, stepping back. “Won’t you do me a favor and stand up?”

Anders watched him for a moment, the dappled sun catching the starlight in his eyes, gilding his raven-black hair. “I don’t wish to hurt you,” he repeated softly, rising to his feet, leaden against the ground. He rubbed the back of his hand against his cheeks. “I am-“ he cleared his throat. “I didn’t mean for my teasing to upset you.”

“I see that.” Pavus dropped his gaze to his cane. “If I’d known about your visitor, I would have been more likely to trust you. Spirits like that are rather candid.”

“Next time,” he breathed shakily, pressing his fingers to the bridge of his nose. “I’ve always been a wretched liar, even before I gained a passenger.”

“That may be, but as you mentioned: men change.” He drew out his flask, took a sip, then held it out. “Ah. That’s right. You don’t drink.”

“I could use a bit,” Anders extended his hand for it. “For my nerves.”

The earl passed the silver flask over, pacing a few feet away to press his spine to the trunk of the nearest tree. “I apologize for frightening you. I meant to, but apparently that was unfounded.” 

Anders unscrewed the flask and sipped, wrinkling his nose at the brandy that burned his tongue. He flushed even more crimson as he coughed. “I forgot how strong-“ He took another longer drag. “Add terrifying to that list of yours.”

He bowed his head in a rueful nod, crossing his arms. “It has its uses.”

“I imagine it does,” Anders stepped close enough to hand him back the flask. “Your leg never set properly, did it? You make a good show of hiding it.”

“My-” His nostrils flared and he shut his eyes, retrieving the flask and taking a long swig. “Whatever you think you know about me, you don’t.”

“I know next to nothing, you’ll be glad to hear.” Anders peered at him, shoving his hands in his pockets to keep them from quivering. “I just meant to say I could look at it, if you wish. I won’t press the issue again.”

“I manage it,” he lifted his flask in a small salute. “But thank you. I’d prefer you focused on patients who could be helped. I imagine you would prefer that as well.”

“Old injuries are trickier,” Anders said as the brandy warmed his belly. “I’d relish the challenge. If you change your mind.”

He grunted softly, taking another sip. “I’ll think on it.”

“Is there anything you don’t think on?”

Pavus snorted. “Not anymore. No.” He cracked an eye open. “Can you tell me something?”

“That depends on what you ask.” Anders quirked a brow, pulling the ribbon from his hair and retying it with dirty hands. “I’ll try.”

“Do you have a death wish?”

“Not particularly, but I don’t imagine I’ll die of old age.” He shrugged, drawing a bow in his hair. “I might as well live while I’ve got the chance.”

“I imagine you would find life in the asylum very peaceful. Practically infinite patients for you to care for.”

“And you’d like to see me locked up, hm? You could try. Wouldn’t be the first time I’ve slipped a cage.”

“Being able to escape a cage is no reason to get one’s self put in one.” The earl frowned. “If you weren’t- Nevermind.” He sighed, letting his head fall back to the tree. “Would it be too much to ask to pretend none of this happened?”

“Which part in particular?” Anders turned his head to face Pavus. “The bit where you interrogated, accused, and threatened to murder me or the part where I truthfully admitted you are pleasant to look at?”

“I wasn’t going to-” He scowled, waving his hand. “That. That…” He nudged away from the tree. “You cannot say things like that.” 

“I just did.” Anders leaned against his own, crossing his legs in front of him, feeling the bark against his back. “Why can’t I? You don’t agree?”

“Of course I agree,” he rolled his eyes. “I’m ravishing. Have you seen my cheekbones? Alas,  _ you _ aren’t supposed to speak of this.”

“I can’t keep track of all the things I ought to and ought not do in your presence.” He quirked a brow. “Would you mind writing me out a cheat sheet, Lord Pavus?”

“You need a cheat sheet for the whole of modern society? Perhaps you do.” He looked down at his hands. “Why would you imagine it was appropriate-”

“There’s no one here, unless you’ve got staff hiding in the bushes? The tops of the trees?” He widened his eyes in mock horror. “ _ Do _ you?”

“What is it?” His breath was short and quick through his nose. “What is it about me that makes you think you can speak to me like this and I won’t-”

“Won’t have me sent to an asylum?” Anders gave him a small, sharp smile. “Intuition. And possibly the conversation we had in your study in the city. And the curious fact that you didn’t bat an eye at your wife spending weeks with a strange man. Mostly intuition, though.”

The earl took a long draught from his flask. “She’s been happier than I’ve seen her in some time. Why should I bat an eye?”

“You shouldn’t,” Anders raised a brow. “Most men would.”

“There’s only one Almila.” His shoulders curved. “Is that it? I trust my wife? That’s suspicious?”

“Absolutely. I know… stories of wives and husbands who have detectives tail them only to find out they really were going to visit their sick aunt. Of course, they were also doing all sorts of other questionable things on the side, but that’s neither here nor there.” 

“Well, I don’t.” Pavus turned to meet his gaze. “I do not do anything on the side, questionable or not.”

“That might be the most suspicious piece of all, my lord.”

“Are you blind, my good doctor? Have you failed to notice that my wife is radiant? Who would be fool enough to dismiss a woman of her caliber?”

“I’ve not failed to notice,” he admitted, staring into perplexed silver. “She’s wonderful.”

“She is.”

“Might I ask you a horribly improper question?”

He shook his flask, finding it empty, and moved to procure a bottle from one of his saddlebags with a grimace. “Can I stop you?”

“Unlikely. And I suppose one could say it’s an appropriate line of inquiry, given my profession.”

The man pursed his lips skeptically, eyeing Anders as he uncorked the bottle. “What.”

“When was the last time the two of you used that bed you share for something other than sleeping?”

“That’s what you consider appropriate given your profession?” he scoffed, tipping the bottle back. “Little wonder you were on the market.”

“I  _ said _ it was improper.” Anders shrugged with a slight smile. “I  _ gave _ you a warning. And it  _ is _ important and relevant, if either of you wishes to have more children.”

“She wanted a son. She has a son.” The earl dropped to a fallen log, cradling the bottle between his hands. “Did she tell you she wanted more?”

“She didn’t. I was simply curious.”

“This. The prying. Innately suspicious, in case you were curious about that as well.”

“Does that go on my list? Suspicious?” Anders sighed, closing his eyes. “Fine. I can pretend it didn’t happen, if that’s what you’d prefer.”

“Why does any of it matter to you?” Pavus looked up, passing the bottle from one hand to the other. “Why should-” He shut his eyes. “Did she say something? Did she ask you something or-?”

Anders shook his head. “No somethings. You are, in your own words, ravishing.” He lifted a brow meaningfully. “Who can possibly resist  _ ravishing _ ?”

“Who, indeed. I am an aesthetic marvel.” He gulped brandy, wiping his lips on the back of his hand. “It’s a travesty.”

“What is?” Anders padded towards him, taking a seat next to the earl, holding his hand out for the bottle. Justice was grumbling irritably about the drink and was likely to give him a headache for the indulgence, but he shoved the feeling away as best he could.

“I don’t-” Pavus turned to him, sighed, and offered the brandy. “I don’t know. Life, I suppose.” He clasped his hands, leaning forward to his knees, “I suppose-” he repeated softly, “I should thank you.”

“For what?” Anders chuckled, tilting his head back to drink deeply. “Pestering you?”

“For being better than I thought you were. For not mentioning your… theory… to anyone else.”

“No. I wouldn’t.” He handed the bottle back, meeting Pavus’ gaze. “I won’t. I know what a condemnation it is. For something as simple as-“ Anders frowned. “I’ve never seen the sense in it.”

“Does there need to be sense in it? So little of what people do is sensible.” The brandy sloshed as he drank, staring across the mushroom filled clearing. “Ignorance and cruelty,” he whispered, thumbing the lip of the bottle. “Whole seas of it, with little islands of contentment in between.”

“Have you found one such oasis?” Anders asked softly, studying the moss on the fallen trees, lichen crawling up the ancient trunks. “I had one myself, for a short time, many years ago.”

“There are times when it seems like I have. Then the foliage wilts for want of nutrients I’m unable to provide.” He sniffed, his jaw tightening. “Do you wish to speak of yours?”

“There’s no sense exhuming ghosts,” Anders murmured, shutting his eyes tightly. “I only wish I would’ve realized what I’d had before it was gone.”

“There’s all manner of sense in exhuming ghosts. All manner of lessons to learn from what has passed. Speaking as a spectre,” he added with a rueful smile, then peered down into the bottle. “My condolences for your loss.”

“And mine for yours.” Anders ran his thumb along the back of his hand. So much blood he’d seen. Death and life in equal measure. Atonement and penance, to try and bring a bit of balance back into the world. Decades and it hadn’t worked, hadn’t scrubbed away the red from beneath his fingernails. “I’ve felt like a ghost myself for a very long time.”

“Still?”

“Always,” Anders turned towards him. “Except for those years when I was in love and too foolish to realize it.”

“So the poet laureate isn’t correct?  _ Is _ it better not to have loved at all?”

“No,” he said, more forcefully than he intended. “I wouldn’t trade that time for anything.”

“I apologize. I didn’t mean-” Pavus hung his head, “I’m very sorry.”

“You don’t need to apologize,” Anders whispered, touching Pavus’ chin gingerly to meet his eyes again. “Thank you for asking. I’ve never spoken much about him before. I never-“ he exhaled shakily. “Thank you.”

He could feel the soft puffs of warmth from the man’s unsteady breaths against his palm. Watched the furrowed brow soften and tense erratically. “You never what?”

“Had someone to tell,” he murmured, wanting to drown in those pools of melted mercury that stared at him with such curiosity and confusion. Anders was too warm, already lightheaded, the world resolving into soft, muted colors around him, as though the earl had cast another spell. “You are undoubtedly the most beautiful man I’ve ever laid eyes upon and it’s terribly unfair that you’ve hidden yourself away these past weeks. I hope it doesn’t continue, my lord.”

Another hitched breath, the warm brandy breeze blew across Anders’ palm, kissing his wrist. “Your visiting spirit,” he whispered, closer than he had been, drawn by the lightest of pressures Anders impressed upon his shapely chin. “It is immutable by time. What does it say of such things?”

“That I should get back to work,” Anders chuckled, sliding his hand up smooth skin to cup Pavus’ cheek. “Always his line. Probably will be until all the ills of the world have been resolved. Thankfully  _ I’m _ the one driving the carriage - at least most of the time - and not him.”

“Idle hands do the devil’s work.” Pavus lifted his fingers, curving them a breath’s distance from Anders’ wrist and running them over the air just above his arm, up over his shoulder, touching the space between them. The words when they came weren’t even a whisper. They were the barest of sounds on the warmth of the air he exhaled: “I have wished to touch your hair since I saw you.”

“And you’d have me chop it off,” Anders said quietly with a slight smile, pressing his forehead against the other man’s. 

“Not  _ all _ of it, Maker forbid.”

“I’ve longed for the same, you know, when I wasn’t fantasizing about throwing my fist into your damnably perfect face. You’re too pretty; it’s indecent.”

“I know,” the wretch murmured. He could taste the earl’s breath, feel the warmth of it caressing his lips, the tickle of his mustache. His forehead. His cheek. The barest nudge of their noses together. “You-“ The purse of his lips to form the word brushed them against Anders’ - soft and sweet and bourbon-soaked. A quiet cry from the back of the man’s throat escaped on a shuddering sigh, then his fingers were tangling into Anders’ hair, dragging him closer.

He whimpered at the touch, his own hands moving to the back of Pavus’ neck, fingers scrubbing through the softest hair he’d ever had the pleasure to feel. Cardamom and brandy and freshly turned earth and the slight hum of electricity. Lips smooth and slick and hesitant as Anders drank bourbon and sun-warmed honey from his lips and remembered what it was to be alive. “Please,” Anders breathed, the word lost against Pavus’ flesh. “Don’t stop.”

He gathered Anders closer, breaths like a hawk’s distant shout, strong arms linking around him. Tasting him. Tentative touches that grew more and more sure by the moment as he dragged his hands down Anders’ spine and across his shoulders, cupping the back of his neck, clamoring. 

“Oh,  _ Maker _ ,” Anders sighed, parting his lips, warmth flooding his skin, threatening to sear him. He shifted closer, their thighs pressed together, shaking and unsteady. To be kissed with a ravenous hunger, to be wanted with such a gentle ferocity- “Yes,” he hummed, wanting nothing more than to be devoured. “Yes, please-“ 

His hands seemed to be everywhere at once, now that they’d passed that invisible boundary. He pressed his palm to Anders’ chest, roaring over him like a wave, pressing him back into the leaves. Every kiss was a gasp for air from a drowning man. They sprawled across the ground, the earl stroking skin where he could find it, silk and smooth suit where he could not. There was a desperation to him, a frenzied seeking of shape and knowledge and contact. “Can’t-“ he shuddered between kisses, breathless. “I can’t-“

“You can do anything you wish,” Anders murmured, kissing the shell of his ear, lips tracing the space behind, skin protected and as soft as rose petals. “You  _ should _ do anything you wish,” he corrected himself, smiling as he kissed a line down Pavus’ neck, peering up at him with a gentle, steady grin. “Stop fretting for a moment and kiss me; I’ve a hunger for you.”

“Maker forgive me,” Pavus breathed. He tugged at his cravat, pressing eager kisses to the line of Anders’ jaw and throat as he raked his fingers down the line of his body. “I hunger, as well.”

“Nothing to ask forgiveness for,” Anders exhaled, baring his neck and wrapping his legs around Pavus’ waist. “We were made in the Maker’s image. He cannot be just if he crafted us to be lonely. Man’s folly, that, not the Maker’s, and not yours.”

“Don’t-” the man moaned, burying his face at the base of Anders’ throat and breathing deep. He ran his palm over Anders’ hip, stroking down his thigh, as he rolled his hips against him. “Don’t. Only kiss me. Please.”

“As you wish,” Anders hummed, catching his lips and flexing his fingers against the starched cloth of Pavus’ vest, tasting the liquor on his tongue and losing himself. “At your leisure, my lord,” he smirked, kissing the corners of the earl’s mustache. 

“Don’t-” he tugged at Anders’ lip with his teeth, wrapping his hair around his fingers. “Every bloody time you smirk at me, I’ve wanted to leap on you like some sort of animal.”

“I rather thought that was the point.” Anders chuckled, nudging him with his nose. “Glad it’s working.”

A shudder ran through the earl’s body. He sighed, molten, kissing him again and again, until his lips buzzed and numbed with it. Lips. Cheeks. Eyes. Jaw. Neck. He peeled at Anders’ collar, lapping at his throat, grinding helplessly against him in the leaves. They rustled beneath them, fluttered overhead. The soil-rich scent of undergrowth and growing mushrooms and sweat met and tangled with his spices and brandy. He moaned again, shifting his hips to drive them together, stiff lines of heat through starched cloth, until he was panting at Anders’ ear. “I’ve wanted you. I can’t look at you without wanting you.” 

“You’ll have me,” Anders hummed, turning his cheek to kiss him again. “As often as you like. Soon. But-“ He pulled away, meeting the earl’s molten silver eyes, entrancing as starlight and unexpectedly warm. Anders frowned, watching him. “We do need to do something first, I’m afraid.”

He was flushed, lips ripe from kisses, yearning etched into his expression. “What?”

“Almila,” Anders whispered. “I’m half in love with her. I don’t wish to hurt her with this. You said you trust her.”

“I  _ do _ , I-” He blinked. “You’re what?”

“I didn’t plan to act upon it,” Anders shivered, closing his eyes. Why in the Maker’s name had he said it? What madness- “I’m not sure it’s possible to know her and not love her, my lord.”

Pavus rolled to the side, scrubbing his hands over his face. “You-” He exhaled shakily. “Does she-”

“I don’t know; I didn’t intend to tell her.” Anders shook his head, unable to meet his eyes. “She’s in love with you, anyone with eyes can see it. I didn’t want to interfere.”

“Didn’t you?” he whispered, sounding strangled. “What is this,” he shook his head, climbing unsteadily to his feet. “What is  _ this  _ if not interference, doctor?”

“I’ve-“ Anders stuttered, leaning up on his elbows to stare after him. “Developed an affection for both of you it seems. Forgive me. Apparently I’m a greedier bugger than even I realized.” He scrubbed a hand through his scruff, still kiss-dampened. “I couldn’t have expected this. I’m sorry. I’ve made a right mess of-“ he pressed his palms against his eyes. “I’ll forget all of this, if you ask it of me.”

There were leaves and grass clinging to the man’s spine as he turned, the limp more pronounced as he crossed to his horse. “I need to speak to my wife.” He gripped the saddle, taking a deep breath. “I need to think.”

“Let me pull the leaves from your hair at least,” Anders said softly, rising shakily to his feet, head hanging. “It doesn’t befit one of your station to be covered in grass and mushroom caps.”

“What do you care for my station?” Pavus looked to him, rumpled and wrecked. “Except as a foil for your jokes.”

“It matters to you,” Anders gave him a small, forlorn smile. “I don’t understand it, but- If it pleases you, I’d like to help you maintain it.”

“Would you? Upending my world, tearing past my boundaries, wanting my wife- This is your way of helping me maintain what you think of as foolishness?”

“Perhaps not your station,” he admitted, wringing his hands. “I suppose it doesn’t much matter what I want. Go speak with your wife. I’ll make myself scarce.”

“Don’t-” The earl flexed his hands on the saddle. Melting mercury. Slippery silver. “What is it that you want? Do you even know?” 

“To be loved,” Anders whispered, dropping his eyes to the ground, “and not simply be considered a drunken mistake. To be loved again.”

He ran his fingers through his dark hair. Touched his lips. “Leaves?” he whispered. 

Anders crossed to him, his feet too heavy for his body, movements stiff and awkward. He pulled the leaves and grass from Pavus’ vest, brushing off dirt from his breeches, frowning over stains at his knees, readjusting cloth around him and then running unsteady fingers up his chest before meeting his eyes. “There. As close to perfect as I can give you, my lord. I’m sorry for rumpling your suit-”

“Doctor.” The earl touched his cheek, gazing at him. “You’ve called me ‘my lord’ more times in the last half hour than you have in the entirety of our acquaintance.” He tucked Anders’ hair behind his ear, studying him. “My name is Dorian.”

“I’m trying to be agreeable,” Anders smiled slightly, touching his hand gingerly. “Dorian,” he repeated, feeling warmed to his toes. “It’s Anders. Please.”

“Anders,” he repeated quietly; he combed his fingers through Anders’ hair, shutting his eyes. “Yes. So you said.” He pressed their foreheads together, breathing low. “You promised to stay. Do you remember?”

“Of course I do.” He met Dorian’s eyes, silver pools of moonlight. “Julius’ health is more important than any of us. I’ll see him through the remainder of his illness and any he might suffer in the future, should it be necessary.”

“Thank you.” Dorian hesitated, then brushed a tentative kiss over his cheek. “I need to think,” he said again.

“Of course you do,” Anders nodded, eyes watering at the touch. “It’s in your nature.”

“Among other things.” 

“Take your time,” Anders murmured, squeezing Dorian’s fingers and stepping away. “I’ll check on Julius now and return from town Sunday evening.”

He nodded once, slowly, then drew himself up into his saddle. “Travel safe.”

Anders watched him go, his heart stinging and light and wanting. The softness of that touch. The longing in his eyes. It had to mean something, didn’t it? 

He wandered a while longer in the fields, before meandering back to his mare and riding back for the stables.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Come say hi to [Oftachancer](https://oftachancer.tumblr.com/) and [Middy](https://midnightprelude.tumblr.com/) on Tumblr if you're so inclined!
> 
> Title note: "Underneath the Bough" is an epic poem written in 1893 by "Michael Field" - check it and "him" out. Very interesting writing and history!


End file.
